


Two of Us

by Professor_Maka



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Angst light, F/M, Fake Marriage, Fluff, SoMa fun, Teasing, lots of teasing, rich people suck, wedding shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-01-19 01:13:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 51,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1449808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Professor_Maka/pseuds/Professor_Maka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After over a half decade at Shibusen, Soul is finally returning home to attend his brother's wedding, bringing his meister with him for moral support. When a misunderstanding forces Soul and Maka to pretend they are in a different sort of partnership, will it lead to fate or folly?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Through the Rabbit Hole

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ilarual (Ilarual)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilarual/gifts).



> This will be a multi-chapter SoMa post-canonverse fic-the premise will be clear soon enough. Thanks to ilarual for being a fantastic reader and for wanting this enough for me to decide to write it. And yes, I swiped the title from a Beatles tune. If the song fits, as it were.

He looked way too casual for how nervous his wavelength felt, and it set her immediately on edge.

 

“What?” Maka snapped as he plopped down next to her on the couch, bowl of popcorn in hand.

 

“Um, you can start the movie now?”   Sarcasm, so normal, but the tension still writhed underneath.

 

“Fine,” she said, clicking on the selection for the evening.  It was her pick, and seeing as he’d tortured her with some absolutely dreadful action flick last week, she decided to break out the big guns.  So tonight, her favorite cheesy romcom _You’ve Got Mail!_ was on the docket, and the moment it started, she heard her partner groan audibly.  Well, next time, maybe he’d think twice before making her sit through the questionable dramatic stylings of Steven Seagal.

 

“I am _so_ making you watch _Sharknado_ next time for this,” Soul mumbled as Meg Ryan talked through more of her history.  Maka just shrugged.

 

“Wouldn’t be the worst movie you’ve made me watch.  I guess next Friday _Sharknado_ it is.”

 

“Actually,” he hedged, and Maka felt the tension in his soul spike.  “About that.”

           

“About what?   _Sharknado?_  At least it’ll be funny.  Better than another armbreaking fest.”

           

“Noooo…I mean about next Friday.”  

 

Maka’s eyes shot to her partner’s face.  His own eyes were still plastered to the television where Meg Ryan was now typing in an email on a dated desktop using a long defunct ISP, yet she noticed that, in spite of his otherwise casual posture, her scythe was scratching the back of his neck emphatically.  Oh yes, Soul was definitely nervous.

 

“What about it?” she snapped.

 

“Well, it’s just—uhhh—well—my brother called last night.”

 

“Your brother?  So you guys are talking?  Soul, that’s great!”  It really was.  Maka knew so little about his family, but she had learned that her weapon had an older brother and that he hadn’t spoken to any of them since he’d come to school.  The scythe meister had never forced the issue, though more recently, in the few years since the final battle on the moon, she had tried to nudge him towards reconciling.  Even if Soul would never admit it, she could tell he missed them.

 

“Yeah, well, it was the first time—uh—in a long time.  I mean, I, uh, wrote him a letter once, right after the battle on the moon to—well—to let them know I was alright, I guess, but—“ he just shook his head.  “Um, anyway.  I guess he’s—uh—well—getting married, and he called in a lot of favors to finally hunt down my cell number.  Apparently, me going back to Evans helped—“

 

He was rambling in a way she had rarely seen, and his wavelength was erratic, stretched thin with anxiety.  She was trying to figure out _why_ , because it made no sense.  She knew he hadn’t always gotten along with his family, but what could his brother have told him to—

 

“—so he called, and he told me, well, that he’s getting married.  Next Saturday, actually.  And he’d really, uh, like me to come and be the best man.  But, um, from my letter, well, he knew I would probably want to bring you, plus he thought—well—he may have misinterpreted things.  And—fuck—my family are really uptight and traditional, and he was trying to help, so I guess he kind of sort of told my parents _thatwe’remarried._ ”

 

“What was that?”  He’d said the last part in a quick jumble and she was positive she must have heard wrong, because it sounded like he’d said—

 

He took a deep breath.  “Wes told my parents _that we’re married._ ”

 

Maka blinked.  Once.  Twice.  “That’s…”

 

“I _know_!” he groaned, putting his head in his hands.

 

“You want to go.”  It wasn’t a question.

  
“ _No_ ,” Soul replied vehemently.  “But I—I need to go.  Wes, fuck Maka, you should have heard him.  And the way he talked about my Mom and Dad and everything.  So, yeah, I—I really don’t want to face it all, you know?  But I think—I think I have to.”

 

“So go.”  She tried to smile reassuringly, all but forgetting the misunderstanding with his brother that had begun this.

           

“I—“  He was scrubbing his hand through his hair, trepidation so thick in his soul he was almost drowning in it.  “I mean—will you—please?”  He turned his eyes to her, startling in their color as they always were, but this time, the bored mask gone, they were so filled with pleading that her smile faltered.

 

“You want me to come with you,” the meister quietly spoke the words he’d struggled with.

 

He just nodded.

 

“Of course,” she smiled softly again.  “Of course I’ll come with you if you want me to.  We’re partners.  You’ve put up with enough of my Papa’s silliness.  The least I can do is—“

 

“Even though…“ the scythe cut her off, but then trailed off.  He was still wound.

“Even though?” she questioned.

 

“Well, even if we, uh, have to—um—“ Soul was attacking his neck again, his eyes back on the long forgotten movie.  She glanced at the film herself, absently noting Tom Hanks being a jerk to Meg Ryan on screen. “I mean,” he continued.  “Like I said, uh, Wes told them, uh…”

 

Oh.  Oh—she’d forgotten that bit.  Maka shrugged casually.  “We’ll just tell them the truth,” she said brightly.  “I’m sure—“

 

“No, no, fuck, no, this is going to be—no, we can’t.  I mean, Wes already told them, and it’ll just—no.”  His agitation was increasing with every passing second; he was shaking his head to emphasize his refusal, his hand tapping out an unheard symphony on his thigh.  His soul felt like he wanted to run screaming from the room, and she could feel the sheer force of will it took him not to do so.

 

“No?”  She was confused.  He couldn’t possibly be asking, suggesting—no, of course he wouldn’t.  Would he?  But then, his soul…

 

“Please?”  Her weapon’s eyes were back on hers, looking almost desperate.  “I _know_ this is totally, completely uncool, but you have to understand how my family is—and I told Wes the truth, how it is, and he’s probably right, they’ll _get_ it better this way.  So, uh, if you wouldn’t mind—um—playing along.”  He went scarlet, his eyes darting away from hers to the wall behind her.

 

Maka had to choke back her own sudden urge to run screaming from the room because this was clearly _difficult_ for him—but how could she do what he asked?  To pretend—to pretend that they were—

 

“Soul, I—“ she shook her head.

 

“Please?”  He met her gaze again.  “It’s just for the weekend—and—and—it won’t be that different.  Just, just have to play along.  We’re already partners, right?  We already live together and spend most of our time together and stuff and and—It’s not—it’s not like we have to—it won’t be so different, and it’s just a weekend, and I swear to Death you can choose the movie for the rest of our lives and I won’t leave my boxers on the bathroom floor anymore and I’ll never drink from the carton again and I’ll do the dishes for a year, or whatever you want, just—fuck—I can’t do this alone.  Please, Maka?”

 

She shouldn’t say yes, but she couldn’t say no.  He was right, in a way—it wasn’t so different, and yet, it was completely different.  To pretend such a thing, to pretend to be together, to be in love, to be _married,_ for Shinigami’s sake, it would be so hard, so very hard, because one of those things was the truth, and the others never would be, and pretending they were, pretending they were together in a way they never would be, that would _hurt._  And yet—and yet—she wouldn’t say no, because she would rather hurt a thousand times more than see him suffer the way she could feel he was suffering now.

 

“Alright,” she said finally, quietly.  “But you had better ace the every exam until graduation, and no more bitching about Sunday training on off weeks, fair?”

 

He breathed out an audible sigh of relief, his entire posture relaxing, deflating, his eyes returning to the television.  “Fair.  Totally fair.”

 

“Well, then, I guess we’re going to a wedding.”  Her eyes returned to the television as well, and they pretended to finish the movie neither cared to watch any longer in contemplative silence.

 

* * *

 

 

Four days later, they were on a plane to Connecticut.  Soul’s brother had made it clear that as a part of the wedding party, he was expected to partake of all the pre-wedding preparation and pageantry.  For his part, as Maka was well aware, Soul was less than enthusiastic about this, but he had done as he was asked—he hadn’t seen his brother in years, and it was only a few days.  He was a big boy, he had insisted, he would live.  Kid had gladly allowed them the time away from school and other duties; having lost his own father so recently, he felt the importance of family keenly.

 

Soul’s brother, Wes (Maka knew that was his name and that he was some sort of big shot violinist, but that was about all she knew,) had made their travel arrangements, insisting that it was the least he could do since he was “imposing on them,” as his message had indicated.  First class on a luxury airline, Maka had never been treated so well.  The seats were plush and turned into beds, the food was gourmet, and the flight attendant, an overly friendly man named Max, treated them like they were royalty instead of just a couple of kids from Death City.  Yes, Soul was “The Last Death Scythe,” but while they occasionally attended functions, they were never treated like they walked on water, like they were the most important people to have ever graced the earth.  They were treated with a little stunned awe sometimes, maybe, but their every wish was not the command of some trained underling.  Meisters and Weapons, that just wasn’t how they operated.  But here?  It was like they were the King and Queen of Shibusen, come to pay court.  It was absurd, Maka felt entirely out of place, and she was beginning to fear being a sore thumb during this entire ordeal.

 

What really flabbergasted her, though, was how bored Soul seemed with it all.  Not surprised, not in awe, simply bored.  He was polite, he was formal, he was otherwise  completely normal and the meister couldn’t help but to wonder if maybe he really was some sort of royalty because, for herself, she had been awkward and gaping since they’d first stepped foot into the VIP room to wait for the plane.

  


But not Soul.  Her weapon had spent the flight in the same way he’d spend any other, asleep, listening to music.  He woke long enough for the meal (shrimp and filet mignon, it was superb,) he’d taken the (illegally) offered cocktail, but otherwise, he slept and drooled as he would normally sleep and drool.  Underlying the bored mask, of course, she could feel nervous anticipation, downright fear really, but the mask was firm, and the fear had nothing to do with their treatment or surroundings, was not about plush seats and gourmet meals.  Her own, however, was entirely about plush seats and gourmet meals and not being good enough by half in the eyes of these strange, unknown creatures who were the Evanses.

 

Still, if the way he had his arm around her, clinging to her almost desperately was any indication, then he was as off as she was.  Sure, Maka would cuddle against her weapon when she fell asleep during a flight, and his arm would end up around her, but this time she hadn’t slept, yet he had pulled her close all the same.  She was interrupted from her thoughts by a soft clearing of the throat from above her.  Max, the blonde haired, blue eyed attendant, was standing there, smiling expectantly.  She looked up at him, tilting her head in question.

 

“Excuse me, Mrs. Evans?”

 

“Uh, no, it’s—“ she was about to correct him, then shook her head.  “I mean, uh, yes?”  She couldn’t believe it had begun already—they weren’t even off the plane yet for Shinigami’s sake!

 

“I am terribly sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Evans, but I was asked to inform you to please remain seated when the plane lands.  I will be escorting you and your husband to your waiting car personally—and your luggage will be seen to.”

 

“Um, yes, of course,” she stammered out awkwardly.

 

“You know,” he continued, his friendly smile looking genuine for once as he glanced between the two of them.  “You two may be young, but you look like a very good couple.  You are absolutely adorable together, if you don’t mind me saying it.  Well!”  He stood straighter.  “If you need anything, feel free to ring.  Enjoy the rest of your flight!”

 

Maka just gaped after him, shaking her head slightly.  They had only been “married” for a few hours, and yet, already this… this… and what could he possibly mean by it?  Cute couple?  Them?  They--they bickered non-stop, and Soul was constantly teasing and snarking at her, and however she might feel, he saw her as his buddy, Black*Star with (very modest) boobs, a great friend, but that’s that.  She wasn’t his type.  Shouldn’t everyone see through this farce instantly?  Surely their acting skills weren’t that good--hell, they hadn’t even started acting yet!  But, if even strangers were reading things between them that would never be there, then this was going to be both easier and harder than Maka had initially believed.  Oh yes, it was going to be a long, long week.

 

The plane landed in New York an hour later, and as Soul finally woke up, bleary eyed, to wipe the drool from his chin, he began to shuffle his things, preparing for the mad battle to exit the plane.

 

“’Morning sunshine,” she grinned at him.  “Nice as it is for you to rejoin the world of the living, you probably shouldn’t bother with all that—we’re supposed to stay on the plane for a bit.”

 

“Wha?”  He blinked at her as if she had spoken Latin.

 

“I guess we’re to be escorted to a car and our things taken care of,” she offered with a shrug, because it wasn’t like she understood it herself, exactly.

 

“Fuckin’ Wes,” Soul groaned, palming his face in exasperation.  “This is revenge, totally revenge.  Asshole.”  He was mumbling to himself in his palm.  Apparently, something about all of this _could_ surprise him.

 

“Don’t sulk,” Maka finally interrupted his whining a minute later.  “I’m sure your brother was just trying to be helpful, and we aren’t going to die because someone carries our luggage around one time.”

 

“Not taking some car,” he finally grumbled.

 

“Huh?”  she frowned at him.

 

“We’re not—taking—some car,” her weapon insisted, looking up to meet her eyes.

 

“But—“

 

“Arranged with Kid to have my bike there.  Convinced him we’d take care of a few stray prekishin in the area once the wedding stuff was done.  Thought you’d be happy.”

 

“Um, I guess, but…“  The plane was nearly empty now, and as the last straggler disembarked, Max approached, clearing his throat.

 

“Well, then, Mr. and Mrs. Evans, if you’d be so kind as to follow me, I’ll take you to—“

 

“Change of plans,” Soul cut him off.  “My bike was transported by order of Lord Death himself.  See to it that it’s unpacked and left for us.  You can lead us to _that_ when it’s ready, and send our luggage on ahead.”

 

Maka was a little floored by the command in his tone, the bored ease with which he told the attendant what he _would_ do, as if there could be no other option, and she wondered again what she was getting herself into because this was so unlike her Soul... but perhaps it was exactly like Mr. Evans.  For his part, the attendant just kept his too bright smile plastered to his face, his overly coiffed hair bouncing as he stood straighter.

 

“Yes, of course, sir,” he replied.  “I’ll just escort you to the VIP waiting lounge while everything is prepared.”  Soul nodded and they both rose, Maka grabbing the midsized handbag she had purchased just for the occasion, and Soul merely stuffing his phone and earbuds back into the pocket of his jeans.  They followed through the empty jetway, out to a waiting personal transport cart, the type normally reserved for the elderly or handicapped, and were whisked to the lounge to wait.  Max finally escorted them to a private suite, complete with luxurious furniture and a small bedroom and bathroom, very much like the one they had left behind in the Vegas airport, before leaving them, the door closing with a soft click.  They both sat down on the plush sofa, perhaps a foot apart, Soul plopping heavily.

 

“Soul—what was that all—“

 

He shook his head.  “The bike makes me feel more like myself.  All this—“ he waved his hand around in frustration, “makes me feel like a fucking Evans.”

 

“But aren’t you?”

 

“No,” he said firmly.  “I’m a death scythe.  I left this shit behind a long time ago, and I never looked back.  Just because—because I’m going to see them doesn’t make me one of them, you know?”  The bored mask had crumbled and he looked visibly nervous for the first time since the night he’d asked her to come and—well, lie.

 

Maka shook her head, “I really don’t.  But I guess I’ll take your word for it.  Still, I can’t believe you wheedled Kid into arranging transport for the bike.  And he did it just for us to do a few low level missions?” she raised a skeptical eyebrow.

 

“Noooo,” he admitted sheepishly.  “I agreed to that for you.  For him, I had to promise to play at the next DWMA ball.”

 

“Really?” her eyebrows shot up, because while Soul did occasionally play for diplomatic functions, it generally still took some convincing, and aside from Kid’s ascension ceremony, he never played for school stuff.

 

“Really,” he said flatly.  “I guess he was going to try to make me anyway, something about inviting some witches this year, so he saw it as a win-win.  Whatever.  At least I got Etta a ride.”

 

Maka just rolled her eyes.  She had resigned herself to the fact that Soul’s motorcycle was almost akin to his child years ago; he called it baby, kept it cleaner than he kept himself, and had even named it for Shinigami’s sake.  But the fact he would play for the school to have it close, well, he really _must_ be out of sorts.

 

They were silent for several minutes, Soul flipping through random channels on the too large, too sharp television, Maka keeping her eyes and focus on the e-reader she’d brought along for the journey, a gift from Soul last Christmas.  It was impossible to focus amidst the mounting agitation she could feel coming off him in waves, however, so she replaced the reader in her bag and looked up, reaching a hand to squeeze his shoulder.  He looked up at her at this, his face again neutral, and she tried to smile reassuringly.

 

“It’s going to be alright, you know?  Your brother is obviously eager to see you, and I’m sure your parents—“

  
Soul just shook his head.  “You don’t know them.  It’s—it’s only for a few days,” he said, voice flat, almost to himself.  “I’ll be fine.”

 

Before Maka could attempt, again, to reassure him, there was a knock at the door.

 

“What?” Soul barked.

 

Max poked his head in.  “So sorry to disturb you, but your—ride—has been prepared.  I can lead you there whenever you are—“

 

“Good,” Soul cut him off.  “’bout time.”  He shot up, grabbing Maka’s hand unexpectedly to haul her after.  Before she even thought to protest, they were making their way through the airport, Soul refusing the cart this time in favor of the walk.  Minutes later, Max led them to a curb where Etta, Soul’s bike, stood, looking as shiny and orange as ever.

 

“Well, here we are!”  Max offered with a bright smile.  “Your luggage has been sent ahead in a car as you requested.  Will you be needing anything else?”

 

“N—no, thank you, I th—“ Maka began to stammer.

 

“We’re good,” Soul cut her off, handing the man some sort of bill.

 

“Very well, Mr. Evans, Mrs. Evans.  Enjoy your stay.”  With that, the prim young man turned on his heel and returned to the airport.  For his part, Soul had already mounted the bike and was looking at his meister expectantly.

 

“Any day now,” he grumbled, zipping up his leather jacket, clearly ready to leave.

 

“Uh, sure, right, of course…” Maka shook her head and walked the few steps to mount the bike behind him.  She wrapped her arms around him, and as they sped through the airport traffic and then away, she pressed herself to his back reflexively.  He felt warm and safe and she couldn’t help but to think he needed the comfort far more than she did because for the first time in over half a decade, Soul was going home.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Home Again, Home Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul procrastinates and we finally meet Wes and his fiance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 is a-GO. Special thanks, again, to ilarual for being the best beta and putting up with my massive whining—mwah! She really does make this stuff better. If you haven't had the pleasure, go read her stuff for it is fantastic.

            It was taking too long, that much she was sure of.  From what she knew of the local geography, Greenwich couldn’t be more than an hour from the airport, yet they had been driving two and were still on the highway.  It was starting to get dark, and Maka was getting more than a little concerned.

            She squeezed her weapon’s arm, trying to get his attention.

            “Soul?  Are we almost—“

            “Can’t hear you,” he cut her off, yelling back.  “Hold on, was about to pull off anyway.”

            “Oh—Okay!” she yelled back.  True to his word, Soul pulled off at the next exit and then, driving only a short way down a four-lane road, pulled into a restaurant parking lot.  He craned his back and neck around to look at her.    

            “Hungry?”

            “Uh, I guess?  But, um, shouldn’t we be at your parent’s house by now?”

            He got off the bike, offering her a hand to help her off which she took absently.  Something wasn’t right.

            “This place has _the best_ ice cream, seriously.  Figured it would be better to eat before we went home, avoid the whole family dinner bullshit for one night.”  He tugged her into the restaurant, red and white themed, sort of country kitsch meets carnival.  Maka thought it looked a bit like a circus and a farm had collided and spilled their insides across the interior.  It was definitely on the eye searing side of the spectrum, but then, so was their beloved academy, so she was pretty used to loud kitsch.  Soul seemed excited, so she figured it should be decent—he was generally pretty serious about his food.

            As soon as they were seated by the same person who happened to be their server for the meal, a matronly woman with gray hair and a ready smile whose nametag declared her to be Madge, Maka turned to her weapon, her tone casual.

            “So, where are we anyway?  We’ve been driving for—over two hours, I think.”

            “Uh, Manchester, I think,” he shrugged.  Maka had little notion of Connecticut geography—they had only been here once for a mission, and Soul always drove, but she was pretty sure that was far inland and north, whereas Greenwich was just over the border from New York and south.

            “And how long will it take to get to your family’s house from here?”

            “Dunno.  Maybe an hour, hour and a half, depends on traffic.”

            “That—Soul, that doesn’t make sense.  How can it take over three hours to get from the airport to Greenwich?”

            His expression remained neutral, though she could tell he was hedging. “Might have taken the scenic route,” he ran a hand through the back of his hair, a tell that he was nervous.

            “Why?”

            “Uh, just, didn’t want to go through the whole family circus tonight, alright?  Figured we’d take a little drive, eat a little something, and avoid the show for one night.  Don’t worry, we’ll get to jump through plenty of flaming hoops tomorrow.”

            Maka sighed.  “You could have just told me to begin with.  It’s your family, Soul.  If you want to drive around the entire state before you face them, then fine.  I’m here for whatever you need, you should know that.”

            “Thought you might get pissed and chop me until I agreed to go,” he grumbled.

            She flashed him a smile.  “Nah, I can’t chop my fake-husband.”

            “Why thank you, fake-wife, I appreciate that.”  The smile he flashed her back was genuine, and she felt the tension drain from him, his soul relaxing.  “Now, down to business.  Stick with burgers, and definitely get dessert.”

            “Uh, sure, sounds good,” she agreed, and they both began choosing and ordering their dinners.

           

            They didn’t eat anything fancy—it wasn’t that sort of place.  Maka got a patty melt, Soul ordered some monstrosity of a burger, and they capped it off by sharing a massive, multiscoop sundae with some ridiculous mix of toppings at Soul’s insistence.  She wasn’t inclined to argue; if ice cream was his comfort of choice, well, there worse things, and anyway, she liked ice cream.  As they ate dessert and reviewed their game plan, so necessary to pull this off, Maka twisted the wrought gold band on her left hand absently, her mother’s wedding ring both giving her strength at the same time that it made her feel odd and out of place. She caught the glint of the matching simple gold band on the hand that Soul was currently taking a bite of ice cream with, purchased at a pawn shop to help with this whole ill conceived ruse, and marveled at just how strange yet right it seemed.  Not for the first time since he’d slipped it on yesterday, she wished it meant even a fraction of what it pretended to the world, though of course, it didn’t, nor would it ever.   

           “So basically,” Soul reiterated for the dozenth time since they’d first planned the trip, waving his spoon for emphasis as they polished off the last of the ice cream.  “We just do what we normally do.  Maybe a little more touching, if that’s--I mean, we decided that’s okay.  Might have to give you a peck here or there to make it convincing, or you give me a peck.  It’s--just for show, just for a couple of days, and I’ll--hell--I’m going to owe you for the rest of my life, I know that.”  He had ceased turning quite so red when discussing the nitty gritty of pretending to be married, but he still looked fairly sheepish.  

           “I think I’ve got it, Soul.  We’ve only been over it half a dozen times,” Maka rolled her eyes.  “Try to act the part, and if anyone asks about our marriage, tell them we’ve been dating since just before everything on the moon, tell them we decided to get married spontaneously on a mission a few months ago--everything else is just tell the truth.  And you always tell me I study too much for tests.”  She shook her head and laughed as his smile became even more sheepish.  

           “Not a test--it’s the fucking final exam and if we fail it means expulsion.”  She could feel the nervousness creeping back up, so she reached across the table for his free hand.  

           “Soul?”  She smiled softly.  “It’s going to be fine, you know that, right?”

           “Yeah, I know,” he let out a long breath.  “After all, Maka Albarn has never failed a test yet.”  His face contorted into a grin.  

           “Damn straight!  Let’s do this thing!” She grinned back, and with that, they finished their dessert and paid, leaving hand in hand.

           An hour after driving up to the restaurant, over stuffed, they remounted the bike.  The meister felt decidedly bloated and, as she wrapped her arms back around her weapon, he was also more solid around the middle than he had been an hour ago, but he seemed a mite more relaxed as well, so she figured it was worth the bloat.

            Of course, it didn’t last.  Another hour later, they were nearing their destination and Soul’s anxiety was notably spiking again.  As they turned off the highway and eventually onto a side road, Maka began to understand why.  The neighborhood they found themselves in was nothing short of lavish.  The houses were massive and getting bigger as they went, mansions really, and the further in they got, the more land surrounded each property.  The meister began to feel like she was entering an episode of “Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous” and suddenly felt very far from home. They finally stopped at the end of a street  occupied with a tall stone fence fronted with ornate wrought iron gates.  Worked in scrolled writing at the top of the gate was a single word:  Evans.  Maka swallowed hard as Soul parked the bike and walked up to the intercom button near the gate itself.

            The property was so huge that as the meister peered past the gate, she couldn’t see the house through the thick hedge of trees.  There was a long drive that disappeared into the foliage; anything beyond was a mystery.  To not see the house from the road, it must have sat on acres upon acres and Maka suddenly understood much more clearly than she had from the special treatment surrounding the plane trip that the Evanses really were something like royalty, must be.  No _wonder_ Soul had been so clueless about all things domestic when they’d first partnered.  He’d probably never had to lift so much as a finger for himself before going to Shibusen!  But maybe she was judging too soon; she hadn’t even seen inside, after all.  Perhaps they just had a lot of land.  Some people did.  And even if their house were huge, it didn’t have to mean anything--Gallows Mansion was massive, but Kid was no spoiled brat.  Yeah, she was definitely judging too soon...

            As Soul had a brief conversation at the intercom, Maka tried very hard not to fidget in her mounting nervousness.  It wasn’t easy, and became harder still as her weapon’s wavelength continued to spike.  Probably, they were feeding off of each other’s tension.  She should try to calm herself.  This could do no good.  Where was her courage now?  If she could face down the Kishin, then surely she could handle one blue blooded family!  She took a few deep breaths and straightened her clothes.  She felt odd in them, really.  They were meant to help her confidence, the dark designer jeans and forest green cashmere sweater.  Liz had insisted a new wardrobe was just what she needed, clothes that bespoke her belonging.  Maka just felt like a pig in lipstick, only the leather jacket Soul had gifted her with a few years back giving her any sense of herself.  Finally removing her helmet, she tried to smooth her hair.  Clipped back into a smart rear pony tail, it made her look more adult, but made her feel even less herself.  She felt so wrong footed, so unsure, and that wasn’t like Maka Albarn, not at all.  She should never have agreed to this—and yet—how could she not?

            This wasn’t helping, and as Soul walked back, the gates opening automatically behind him, she wondered what came next even as she took in a few more breaths.  For him, she would be calm.

            “Get back on,” he mumbled.  “Gonna drive up.”

            The meister complied in silence, remounting behind him though forgoing the helmet, and her weapon drove slowly down the winding path through the trees.  Not for the first time this trip, Maka marveled at the sheer number of trees around them; Death City was so relatively barren, smack in the middle of the desert as it was, that the difference was striking.  She remembered, long ago, when Soul used to occasionally marvel at the lack of trees in the Nevada landscape.  Coming into Connecticut she could understand why.  There were trees _everywhere_ , so many tall, tall trees that she felt almost claustrophobic.  Soul’s own house, his parents’ _estate_ really, was just the same—it was clearly surrounded by, nestled amidst, a veritable forest.  She supposed she’d get used to it, just as Soul had gotten used to the lack.  People did tend to adjust.

            After a short, slow drive up the stone path, Soul turned off down a fork to the right.  This new path, only slightly more narrow, they drove down for only a minute before a stone cottage came into view.  It wasn’t large, but neither was it small, and it was pretty and quaint.  Maka liked it very much and thought that if his parents lived in such a place, then maybe she had fretted for nothing.

            Soul stopped at the end of the drive, parking the bike in a square area clearly meant for vehicles, before they both dismounted.

            “So this is where you grew up?”  Maka said brightly, eying the beautiful little cottage.  “It’s so cute!”

            “Uh,” Soul scratched the back of his neck.  His nervousness was still rising, though Maka had relaxed a bit.  “No, not actually.  This is, uh, the guest house.  Since we’re—well—married and all, Mom and Dad decided we should have some privacy, I guess.  They’re in bed already, but uh, Wes made sure everything is ready.”  He gave her an embarrassed smile and she colored.  Oh.  OH.  This was _the guest house?_  Well, crap.  Her own nervousness spiked again, and as Soul reached for her hand, she took it gratefully.  Maybe she did need the comfort as much as him.

            They slowly, carefully walked to the house, Soul slouching too casually, belying the anxiety underneath.  Finally, they reached the door, and the very instant the scythe lifted and dropped the ornate little wrought iron knocker onto the weathered, rough hewn wood, the door was flung open as if the occupants had been lying in wait for their signal.  In the little doorway stood a man who might have been her weapon’s twin.  He, too, had stark hair, the same lean build, the same sleepy eyes.  Then this must be—

            “Little brother!” The man swept forward and Soul’s hand was torn from her grasp as he was engulfed in a massive bear hug.  The woman who had been standing next to him in the doorway smiled fondly, and as she caught Maka’s eye, the meister smiled back shyly.  The woman was short, perhaps 5’2”,  her build stocky and curvy.  She had light brown skin, generously freckled, and light green eyes with a decided tilt to them.  Her kinky dark blonde hair was styled into a short afro, and she was dressed much like Maka, dark jeans and a pale yellow sweater.  The scythe meister wasn’t sure who she was, exactly, but her presence was comforting; she had a kind, frank soul.               

            Maka’s eyes moved back to her weapon and his near twin.  Soul was being somewhat smothered by his brother, though they were of a height and size.  The older man was patting the scythe on the back, loudly offering how good it was to see him, how long it had been, how great it was he came.  Soul finally managed to pry him away, though he was grinning when he did.

            “It’s good to see you too, Wes.  Uh—um—“  The woman in the doorway stepped forward, lightly touching Wes’ elbow.

            “Oh, but I’m being rude!”  The man’s eyes lit on Maka suddenly.  “Please, please, come in.  You both must be exhausted after the trip.”

            They were ushered inside and Maka looked around, noting the quaint, cozy decor, before they found themselves sitting together on a loveseat.  Seated across from them were Wes and the woman from the doorway.  In better light, the meister could see that Wes was not his brother’s twin, though their looks were similar.  His hair, while stark, was actually a very light blonde, and his eyes were a rich mahogany brown.  His chin was slightly more square than his little brother’s, and he had perfect, normal teeth.  Otherwise, they were identical.  Wes’ arm was around the woman from the doorway, and Maka found that Soul had mirrored the action.  While this wasn’t unheard of, it was a little strange in company, but then, they _were_ supposed to be married.  That also must mean that the woman was—

            “Well, then,” Wes beamed at them from across the coffee table.  “I suppose that introductions are in order.  Perhaps you would do the honors, little brother?”        

            “Uh, whatever.  Maka, Wes, Wes, Maka.  And—uh—“  He looked to the woman.  “I’m Soul.”

            Wes just shook his head, a fond smile spreading on his face.

            “Maka, Soul, this is Aria, my fiancé.” The meister had known it was coming, but still, she was a little stunned.  She always expected a man like Wes, rich, famous, handsome, would go for some supermodel type, a Blair, a Liz, a Tsubaki, not someone like—like—

            Maka felt like a heel.  It wasn’t that the woman was ugly; actually, she was very pretty, sort of exotic meets girl next door, but her frame, while curvy, was squat.  The meister suddenly found herself liking Wes.  He had a friendly, accepting sort of soul and his fondness for both his little brother and his fiancé was obvious.  What was odd was that she could feel that fondness in his soul extending towards her already, and she couldn’t help but to feel a rush of gratitude.

            “It’s—very nice to finally meet you both,” Maka finally managed, her smile genuine.         

            “You as well, Maka,” Aria put in.  “I’ve heard a lot about you, _read_ a lot about you, but it’s great to finally meet!”

            Soul was characteristically quiet, seeming not to know what to do with himself, so his meister attempted to make conversation for both of them.

            “You’ve—read about me?”  She looked confused.

            “Of course!  Oh, Wes, you should get the book—I’ll go, well, we’ve been rude, actually, it’s just so nice to see you after so long.  You two must be famished!  Can I get you a drink or some food?”

            “Uhh—“  Soul scratched the back of his head nervously.

            “I’d, um, like a drink, and I think Soul would too, but we’ve already eaten, thank you.”

            “Ahhh,” Wes raised an eyebrow, shaking his head.  “So _that’s_ what took so long, little brother.  Your things have been here for hours.”

            “Wes!”  Aria elbowed him lightly in the side.  “Be nice!  Lemonade okay?”  She turned her eyes back to Maka and Soul.

            “Uh, yeah, that’d be—great!”

            Aria shot up suddenly, moving into the kitchen which was visible in the open floor plan.

            “Wes.  The book?”  She called back and Wes just shrugged apologetically and got up himself to disappear into a back room.

            With both out of the room, Soul just shook his head.

            “You okay?”  Maka asked quietly.

            “I think so,” another head shake.

            “Your brother seems nice.”

            “He is.”

            “So does his fiancé.”

            “Mmmm.”  He agreed.

            Before they could exchange more than those few brief words, Aria came back holding four glasses of lemonade on a tray.  She set two down before Soul and Maka, the other two in front of where she and Wes had been seated, and then scurried back into the kitchen to return the tray.  Maka took up the lemonade and took a sip--it was delicious, a perfect mix of sweet and tart, but she supposed she should have expected no less from her hosts. A moment later, Wes returned from wherever he had spirited off to, holding a large leather bound scrap book.

            As the man plopped the large item into his brother’s lap, instead of returning to his seat, he stayed standing behind his brother. Soul’s eyebrows shot up in question.

            “What—is this?”

            “It’s a scrap book, little brother.  What does it look like?”  He was grinning mischievously and Soul looked leery.  Extremely leery.  He flipped open the cover, and Soul Alastair Evans was written in a neat, even script on the first page.

            “Alastair?” Maka asked quietly, unable to suppress the grin creeping onto her face.

            “It’s our Dad’s name,” Wes offered before Soul could.  “And of course—“

            “Shut it, before I start talking about _your_ full name,” Soul cut him off.

            “Fair point,” Wes replied, still leaning over his brother’s side of the couch.

            For a moment, no one said or did anything, and an awkward silence fell.  Unable to stand the discomfort for long, Maka poked Soul in the arm.

            “So, are you going to look or not?”

            “Maybe,” he shrugged.

            “Soul,” her tone was a warning.

            “Fine, fine, whatever,” he grumbled, flipping away from the name page.  The next page was plastered with baby pictures of a cute, fair haired, mostly bald infant with grey eyes.

            “Is that…?”  Maka started.

            “Sure is—my adorable baby brother,” Wes said with a smile.  He leaned over Soul to point down at a specific picture of the same baby with wispy hair in a crib smeared all over with brown.

            “This—is when he—“

            “ _DON’T,”_ Soul snapped, but Wes seemed unfazed.

            “—decided to finger paint with the contents of his diaper.”

            “He didn’t!” Maka looked up at Soul’s brother with a mock gasp.

            “He sure did.  It was all around his mouth, too.  Mom was convinced that he a—“

            “Wes,” Soul growled in warning.  “Name.”

            “Fine, fine, little brother, I’m done.”  The older man raised his hand in defeat, though his smile never faltered, and as Maka met his eyes, he winked conspiratorially.  Maka giggled.  Soul’s big brother was—not what she expected, though honestly, she’d had no clue what to expect.  He was friendly and personable and completely unlike her weapon and she already liked him very much.

            “Can we see more?”  Maka asked, nudging Soul again, who grunted but complied, flipping to the page.  Next came toddler pictures.  Soul, with wild, wispy light blond hair,  honey brown eyes, and straight, perfect teeth, riding a little car, playing with clay, pounding the keys of a miniature piano.  He looked so happy, so angelic, so care free—the meister thought he was absolutely adorable.

            “Awww!”  Maka leaned into him further.  “You were so cute!”

            “Mmm hmm,” Wes agreed as Soul said nothing, though the scythe looked uncomfortable.  “People used to fawn all over him.  He was a sweet little thing, really, even if—“

            “Wes,” another warning growl.

            “Well, anyway, turn the page, there’s more!”

            On the next two pages, Soul was a child, early elementary age.  His eyes were darker here, very like Wes’ actually.  One picture had two missing front teeth, but then, a slightly older picture showed those missing teeth replaced with two sharp spikes. Several were of him at the piano—recitals, practice, next to a grand piano with a bow on it that appeared to be some sort of gift.  He was still adorable, though he seemed to smile less than his toddler self.  In some of these pictures, Soul was playing with an older boy with similar light blonde hair and mahogany eyes that Maka could only assume was Wes.  He looked happiest in those pictures and the meister smiled to herself.  It was clear that the child loved his big brother.

            The scythe meister heard a voice above her suddenly.  “He really was cute, wasn’t he?  ‘Course, I’ve gotta say, he grew up pretty fine, too.  These Evans boys got themselves some kind of genetics.  Guess we caught ourselves some good ones, eh?”

            “Uhhh…” Maka colored, not knowing how to respond to Wes’ fiancé since she hadn’t _caught_ herself a damned thing, but Soul’s brother must have kept her in the dark about that.  “Yeah, um, of course,” she managed to stammer out because she didn’t know what else to say.

            “Well, now you know you guys will make some adorable little babies.  Time to hop to it!  I want me some cute little nieces and nephews!”

            Maka was sure she must be the color of a strawberry just about now and the unfair urge to chop Soul silly had her hand twitching because this wasn’t his fault at the same time as it was totally his fault because _why couldn’t they just tell the damned truth?_

            “We’re, uh, kind of young—“ the meister began to stammer out.

            “I’m teasing, love,” she felt a hand squeeze her shoulder.  “Your new brother and I will be giving you two nieces and nephews long before, I should hope,” her laugh was low and musical and Maka found herself laughing along with her, nervously, but genuinely.

            “Oh, right, of course!  That would be great—I—I’ve always wanted to be an aunt!”

            Soul cast her a strange look, though he was almost as red as she must be.  She shrugged it off, reaching down to turn the page herself, eager to bring the subject away from having kids.

            The next two pages featured Soul as a slightly older child.  In a few pictures, his hair was an odd mixture of white roots and blond ends before, in the next picture, the blonde was lobbed off, leaving only stark white.  His eyes looked more and more red until they were the color she knew, and his teeth, as he lost his baby teeth and gained permanent ones, began to exhibit the sharpness she also knew, though in many pictures he did not smile or smiled faintly with his mouth sealed shut; only when he was caught unawares were his teeth visible.  More images of him were with his piano, more showed him performing.  He did not look happy.

            By the end of these pictures, he looked very much like the Soul she had first met years ago, the Soul who had come to Shibusen to learn to control his innate abilities as a weapon, sarcastic and sullen and antisocial, the boy who would partner with an outgoing, ambitious bookworm.  It was the same boy who would abandon Evans for Eater only to take Evans again when he grew comfortable in his own skin.  Eventually, he would come to realize that it was just a name—it couldn’t change who he was, who he had become. The last picture was of Soul standing with Wes.  The older boy had an arm slung around his brother, his smile both proud and sad.  Soul’s forearm was the scythe blade, black and red and menacing.  He was baring his teeth in a shit eating grin; this boy was reveling in his newfound ability, happy to use it to escape.  This boy would run, but was running no longer; he had finally come home. Maka found her heart swelling with pride because she knew how hard this was for him, but he had faced it, was facing it.

            She sought her weapon’s hand on her shoulder and squeezed it, and he squeezed back.  His face looked as apathetic as it ever did, but his soul sang a different song, and he was reliving the past vividly, she could feel it in the swirl of his emotions.  She turned the page, forcing his eyes away from the past he had fled.  What came next surprised them both.  The two pages spread before them were full of small newspaper clippings.  The first few were older and slightly bigger, several featuring pictures of a young Soul at the piano.  They were short articles about the child prodigy, the youngest Evans, set to follow after his brother and his family with his talent.  After that came short blurbs without pictures—a monster slain in Albuquerque by Maka Albarn and her scythe weapon, Soul Eater.  Another slain by the same pair in Paris, in New York, in Pensacola.  There were several pages of such short, pictureless blurbs, before they came to a page with a large color photograph of Maka and Soul sitting on the steps of Shibusen, Soul with his leg a piano, playing.  The headline read:  Last Death Scythe Plays at Coronation and was followed by the picture and a long article discussing Soul “Eater” Evans, his meister, Maka Albarn, speculation about their role in the battle on the moon (details of which had been kept largely quiet,) and discussion of their importance within the DWMA under the new Lord Death. The last few articles were about more recent missions, or about their occasional diplomatic role. It was all stuff they were aware of, things they knew were out there.  What was new was the fact that Soul’s brother had been following their exploits seemingly from the beginning.

            “You—“ Soul seemed stunned, was shaking his head.  “You—where did you—from the beginning?  How?”

            The sentiments were half spoken, but Wes seemed to get the gist.

            “How many scythe weapons named Soul can there possibly be?”  The older Evans smiled.  “Though I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised you went with Eater,” he laughed.  “It fits.”

            “I—“ Soul was shaking his head again.

            Wes squeezed his brother’s shoulder, then walked back to his seat across from him, Aria following suit.  The older man had a proud smile on his face, and his fiancé was looking between him and his brother fondly, before finally settling her keen gaze on Soul.

            “He’s followed every step, you know.  Didn’t want to bother you if you didn’t want to be bothered, but he’s always wanted to know how you were, so he found out how he could.  We were friends back then, met our second year at Julliard, and he always talked about you even then, his little brother the scythe, the hero.  When you sent that letter a few years back you should have seen how happy he was, but then, you never called.  You never wrote again.  You just—“

            “Aria—“ Wes said quietly, his tone unhappy.

            “He didn’t want to bother you,” she cut him off, squeezing his hand.  “He wanted you to come home when you were ready, to seek him when you were ready, but he always looked out for you.  And then we were going to get married and I knew how much he wanted you to be there so I told him he should call you—screw waiting for ready.  Took a little badgering,” she grinned at this and Wes smiled back at her ruefully.

            “A little?”

            “Okay, a lot of badgering, but he finally saw things my way, and you came.  So thanks for that.  It means the world to us.”  Her smile was genuine as she looked at Soul.  “I really am glad to finally meet you.”

            “I—“ Soul was still at a loss for words.

            “And thanks to you, too,” Aria smiled softly at Maka.  “I have a feeling we have you to thank for this as much as anything.”

            “No,” Maka shook her head in protest.  “No, not at all.  Soul wanted to come, he really did.  We both did.”

            Silence fell for several moments, no one seeming to know what to say after.  Finally, Aria broke the silence again.

            “But we are being rude, aren’t we?  You two must be exhausted and we’re keeping you up!  We should probably get back.  Busy day tomorrow, you know!”

            “Uh, you don’t have to—“ Maka began, but Aria had already pulled Wes up and was dragging her somewhat reluctant seeming fiancé to the door.  Maka took the cue to drag Soul up to follow.

            “Well,” Wes turned around with Aria at the doorway, his smile broad and genuine.  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Maka.  I must say, my little brother may not be able to dress himself to save his life,” he eyed the scythe’s jeans, band t-shirt, and leather jacket combo with mock distaste, a sharp contrast to the older man’s dark jeans and light blue button up, “but he has excellent taste in women.  He’s a lucky man.”  He took her hand and shook it warmly, then winked at her again.  Maka wanted to groan but stifled it.  She liked Wes so far, but the man could really ham it up, another thing that was far different from his brother.  Aria then looked to both of them.

            “I’m really happy to see you both.  You,” she grinned at Soul, “are almost as handsome as your big brother,” she surprised him by pulling him into a hug, which he returned stiffly.  “And you,” she smiled at Maka, “are simply adorable.  I’m going to enjoy being sisters.”  She pulled the meister into a hug as well, one Maka returned warmly because she was really starting to like this odd, frank, kind little woman.

            “Well, then, you’ll want us out of your hair,” Wes cut in as the hug broke off.  “Mom and Dad expect us all for a family breakfast bright and early!”

            “How early?” Soul groaned.

            “Seven,” Wes offered almost apologetically.  Soul just groaned louder.

            “So, goodnight you two.  Don’t stay up too late.  I know how newlyweds can be, but it really is going to be a long day tomorrow.”  Maka went red and Wes tossed her a knowing smile.  Yeah, he was definitely enjoying this.

            “But why aren’t you staying here?” she asked.

            Wes’ smile widened.  “We decided to move up to the main house to make sure you two would have some privacy.  After all, you are married.”

            Soul just shook his head at his brother.  “I _so_ owe you,” he grumbled.

            “I look forward to the payment, little brother,” Wes grinned, ruffling his hair, which had the younger man grumbling.

            “Ugh, I’m not ten anymore!”

            “And yet, you’ll always be my kid brother,” Wes’ laughed and startled Soul by attacking him with a brief hug.  “It _is_ good to have you home,” the older man said quietly.

            The hug lasted another moment and, just as it was breaking off, Soul said even more quietly, “it’s good to be home.”

            If the sudden feeling of affection and contentment in his soul was any indication, then Maka was sure he actually meant it.


	3. The Breakfast Club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's only breakfast--how bad can it be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to ilarual for her, as always, fantastic beta work. This chapter would suck without her input, trust me on this one.

Maka awoke with a start to a wet cheek and bolted upright, her face bashing into Soul’s, who had decided to use her head as a pillow.

            “Ow!” he complained loudly, sitting up himself and rubbing his cheek as he eyed her ruefully.

            “ _You drooled on me!_ ” she accused with some mix of disgust and horror, scrubbing at her own cheek unhappily.

            “Oh, uh, sorry—‘bout that.”  Rueful morphed to sheepish and he tugged the cover to offer to her, reddening.  She took it and scrubbed at her face, shaking her head but not bothering to respond otherwise.  It wasn’t the first time and it wouldn’t be the last.  They shared a bed sometimes, had for a long time now.  On missions when they had no choice.  When one of them had a nightmare.  After a particularly grueling fight.  It wasn’t a nightly thing, but it wasn’t unheard of either, so when Soul had mentioned the fact that they’d have to share a bed or it would look _very_ suspicious to the help, something Wes had emphasized to him a few times in their exchanges, well, that wasn’t so hard; this part of pretending to be married, at least, was par for the course.   Didn’t mean the expectation of others that they would be doing much more than just _sleeping_ didn’t give her goosebumps she’d rather not delve too deeply into.  She _knew_ what they meant, and she would much rather not think about it with her weapon still half naked next to her in bed, his sleep pants tugged too low and his toned tanned chest on glorious display.  Tearing her thoughts away from where they most certainly did not need to be lingering, now or ever, she yawned and stretched before asking.

            “What time is it?”

            Soul raised his bare wrist to his eyes and squinted.  “Freckle past a hair?”

            “You are _so_ lame sometimes, you know that?” the meister said, smacking him with a pillow.

            “Nuh uh.  I’m the coolest guy you know.  Admit it,” he grinned at her before leaning back and over towards the nightstand to grab his phone.

            “Sometimes.  When you aren’t being a complete dork.”

            “Thought that was your job?”  His grin widened as he sat back up.

            Her only response was another pillow to the face.

            “You wanna go, Albarn?”  He grabbed the pillow and brandished it in mock menace before slamming it over her head.

            “Oh, you are SO dead!”  She grabbed a different pillow and went on the offensive, slamming him upside the head twice before scrambling away.

            Total chaos ensued, and ten minutes later, giggling and out of breath, she was straddling him and tickling his sensitive sides while he flailed wildly underneath her before finally, breathily crying; “Uncle!  Fuck, uncle!”

            “That’s what I thought.”  She grinned down at him and he just rolled his eyes.

            “Yeah, big shock, the meister wins.  What’s new?  Now, as nice at it is to have my little wifey on top of me,” Soul waggled his eyebrows suggestively and Maka felt herself go scarlet, “we should probably get up and dressed.  Was 6:30 when I checked and my parents get really cranky when people are late.”

            She scrambled off of him, embarrassed, and began to hunt through the wardrobe—their suitcases had already been unpacked for them when they arrived, much to her astonishment and mild annoyance that strangers were _touching her unmentionables._ After hunting for a few moments for something suitable to wear, she settled on a dark skirt and soft red sweater that Liz had assured her made her look sophisticated.  Grabbing some of those said unmentionables as well, Maka hurried into the en suite bathroom to change, calling back to her weapon “you change in there, I won’t come out ‘till you say.”

            “’Cause married people change in separate rooms _all the time._ ” The scythe called back, his tone teasing.

            “Shut it, _dear_.”

            His response was to chuckle, but she could hear the shuffling of clothes on the other side of the door and figured he was taking her seriously.

            The red sweater fit like a glove, and the swishy knee length black skirt was pretty and girly.  With her hair down and some intricate scrollwork silver barrettes holding up either side, she really did look—well—maybe not sophisticated, but not like herself, either.  More like a little girl playing dress up.  As Maka peered at her reflection in the full length mirror skeptically, she longed for the confidence that her Spartoi uniform would bring her, the sense of command, the sense of _self,_ knowing that the outfit, so tantalizingly close in the wardrobe, would spell disaster for people like the Evanses.  Part of her wanted to just say to hell with it and wear it anyway.  They were bound to see her as not good enough for their son, weren’t they?  To look down on the mousy little meister who had stolen him away?  She may as well give them reason and get it over with.

            But no--no.  She was feeding off of Soul’s newly rising nervousness in the other room, the renewed sense of turmoil in his wavelength, prejudging, prefearing.  She was Maka Albarn.  She would face this and she would win—she would protect her weapon from his whole damned family if that was what it took, but she was going to do it with her head held high.  If wearing some designer clothes would smooth the path, well, she’d done sillier things.  She could do this, too.  Smoothing on some lightly colored lip gloss and taking a last glance at the mirror, Maka called out to her weapon “you ready yet?” and at his muffled “yeah,” she opened the door.  Unlike the t-shirt and jeans combo from last night, Soul had chosen slacks and a plain white button up.  

            His meister smiled at him.  “You look good.”

            He looked her up and down.  “Well, you look—like a dork—but that’s inevitable.”

            She strode over and punched him in the arm.  “Is that any way to talk to your _wife?_ ” she grumbled.

            “Oh, shut it.  You look beautiful and you know it.  Not like you need me to stroke your ego, _darling._ ” He smiled at her, a bit too soft, a bit too fond for the words.  She colored and grabbed his arm roughly, sweeping her new designer purse up from a chair in her other arm.

            “Come on, we’ll be late if we don’t hurry.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” he groaned but followed after her, mostly because she was tugging him along, leaving him with little choice.  She could feel the nervousness he’d hidden beneath their banter resurface full force as they left the little cottage and began to walk down the path they had driven last night.  His soul was a mess and Maka slid her hand down from his arm to grasp his, squeezing it comfortingly.

            “It’s going to be fine.  I’m right here, okay?”

            “Yeah,” he said quietly.  “I know.  Thanks.  For coming.  And for whatever bullshit you’re about to deal with.”

            “I’m sure it’ll be fine, Soul.”  She smiled reassuringly, but he just shook his head.

            “Tell me that _after_ you meet them,” he grumbled.  They’d reached the fork in the path they’d taken last night and Soul steered them to the part they’d yet to travel, the walk pleasant in the late spring morning, cool without being cold, the trees spread above them giving them a feeling of close seclusion. They continued to walk the path in nervous silence, Maka not knowing what else to say, and Soul clearly inclined to stew in his own mounting trepidation.  It was exponentially worse than last night, and the meister felt her own stomach drop as the path finally opened out into a large, circular drive and what looked more like a palace than a house rose before them like some sort of majestic beast wrought of stone and wood.  The house was _massive_ , old and beautiful and utterly intimidating.  It made Gallow’s Manor look like a McMansion, and Maka suddenly wanted to run as much as she could feel the urge rising within her weapon because _how could she face people who thought of that as home?_  She wondered how Soul had ever thought of that as his home and squeezed his hand again, more for her own need for comfort than to soothe him, though the action seemed to do both.

            When they arrived at the door, Soul rang the bell; Maka saw this as odd, seeing as it was his parent’s house and they were staying on premises, but she figured he knew what he was doing.  A moment later, a middle aged woman in a plain grey dress with her brown-grey hair put up into a tight, no nonsense bun appeared.  She smiled warmly as she looked between the two, then opened the door wider.

            “Young Master Evans!” she declared warmly, “your parents await your presence in the summer breakfast room.  I will see you there at once.”

            With that declaration, she moved out of the way, and Soul pulled them both into the house.  The woman led them back through the grand entrance hall and a smaller hallway through an open set of double doors. She motioned them inside, taking Maka’s purse to hand to the young woman in grey standing just inside, before bustling off and away.

            Inside was a light, bright room, lavishly decorated in some sort of highly detailed, pale pink wallpaper, with gilded furniture and mirrors, silk upholstered chairs, and a large, mirror bright table in the center.  It was both light and airy at the same time it was absolutely sumptuous.  The table was set with precision, elegant pastel china, sparkling crystal, and shiny silver.  Standing off to the side, next to a large buffet table laden with covered dishes, was a young woman, also dressed in grey, her hair similarly up in a tight bun, while seated at the table were a middle aged couple.  The man and woman, seeming impossibly elegant, immediately rose, the woman smiling warmly towards them where the man wore a neutral, almost bored expression that Maka recognized from years of partnership with his son.  In fact, Soul looked much like a younger, oddly colored version of his father.  They had the same tall, thin build, the same downturned shape to their eyes, the same aristocratic nose, but the older man’s eyes were a pale, watery blue and his thin hair was fair like his older son’s, just touched with grey at the temples.  The scythe had gotten his sharp chin and, she suspected, luxuriant hair from his mother.  The woman had auburn tresses coiffed into a loose, stylish bun, though the strands that hung strategically out were thick and wavy.  There wasn’t a spot of grey on her hair, and her eyes were the same mahogany that Maka had seen last night on Soul’s older brother.  While they did not radiate the warmth her son’s had, they were nonetheless welcoming.

            “Soul!”  The woman exclaimed, her warm, rich voice conveying her enthusiasm.  “It’s so good to see you!”

            “Mom.  Dad.”  Soul responded with a slight nod in their direction, his tone flat.  For a moment, the four of them stood there in a loaded silence that was becoming increasingly awkward for Maka, before his father cleared his throat.

            “Perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce us,” the older man said, his deep, elegant voice tinged with annoyance.  It was Soul’s tone without his cadence, and Maka found it odd and unsettling.

            “Uh, yeah, of course.  Sorry.  Maka, this is Sophia and Alastair Evans, my parents.  Mom, Dad, this is Maka, my mei—wife.”  The recovery was not smooth, but it was made, and Maka felt anxiety and relief almost equally.

            “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Maka,” Soul’s father said with a practiced smile that did not reach his eyes.

            “It’s—very nice to meet you both as well,” Maka managed, trying to keep her voice from shaking.  Why were these people making her so nervous?  Perhaps it was that bull in a china shop feeling that had washed over her the instant she saw the house, only increasing when she’d stepped inside.

            “Please, do sit,” the man motioned to a few chairs close to where they’d been seated before.  “We can discuss matters further over breakfast.”

            The idea that they might have “matters” to discuss was odd and made the meister uneasy.  If the spike within his troubled soul was any indication, her weapon felt this as keenly as she did, but nonetheless, he squeezed her hand softly, still intertwined with his, then pulled her to their seats.  He surprised her by pulling out her chair and making sure she was settled before sitting himself, an action that both annoyed and endeared her.

            For the next several minutes, they were served, offered choices of eggs (benedict, omelets, there were several options,) meats, pastries, and fruits from the covered dishes on the table by the two grey clad young women.  It was odd and uncomfortable for Maka, to have a family breakfast attended by _servants_.  Even Kid, the current Shinigami, only employed a cook, as well as a maid who came in three times a week, and then, only because he was too busy to see to such things and he feared to have his house burned down if he allowed his weapons to see to them for him.  It seemed ludicrous to her, the idea that two people were dedicated to the task of serving four people breakfast.  And why were there only four, for that matter?  Shouldn’t Wes and Aria be here too?  That might have made this a little less… strange, awkward, formal, and absolutely strained.

            After opting for eggs benedict and a variety of fruit, Maka began to eat.  Two bites in, her musings were interrupted by the rich voice of Sophia Evans.

            “So, Soul,” the meister looked up and noticed her smile was back in place.  “I was wondering if you’d mind telling us what you’ve been up to.  It’s been—well—we’ve clearly missed a lot.  Congratulations, by the way, your wife is lovely.  Welcome to the family, Maka.”

            Maka offered a faint smile.  “Thank you, Mrs. Evans.”

            “Oh, please, do call me Sophia,” she waved a hand dismissively.  “No need to be so formal among family!”

            “Um, thank you then, S—Sophia.”  The name felt strange on her tongue.

            “Of course, dear.  I’ll admit, we were surprised to hear that our little Soul was married—your two are so young—but I can see why he would have acted so hastily where you’re concerned.  Which reminds me—“ the older woman swept her gaze over Maka’s visible half  “—you simply _must_ let me loan you my stylist.  Jean Luc is positively fabulous, and I know how dreadfully difficult it must be to keep up out in Death City with all the latest out of New York and Paris.  He’ll have you looking like a high fashionista in one sitting, I promise!  And, of course, anything he wishes to acquire will be our treat.  It seems only right to pamper our new daughter, after all.”

            “Um, thanks?”  Maka forced a smile.  Did she look so terrible?  She hazarded a glance down at her sweater self consciously.  She’d thought she looked passable this morning, and Liz had helped her so carefully, but maybe—

            “Maka’s fine as she is, Mom,” Soul kept his voice level, but she could feel the annoyance beneath.

            “Of course, sweetie, but no girl doesn’t want a makeover with a world renowned stylist!  I’ll send him over later this afternoon, when—“

            “I said—” Soul sounded angry.  His meister put a hand on his thigh under the table and squeezed a bit hard, causing him to flinch slightly, before moving that same hand to touch his upper arm in show.

            “It’s fine, _sweetie,”_ she smiled at him with light amusement at echoing his mother’s use of the pet name, then at his mother.  “That’s very kind of you, Sophia, thank you.  I look forward to it.”  Maka didn’t sense any ill intent in his mother’s wavelength, and this wasn’t worth a blow up over breakfast when Soul hadn’t seen his family in so long.  She could handle some silly make over for him; she had handled far more before.

            Soul shrugged slightly and continued to eat his breakfast, his table manners suddenly impeccable.  She was so used to him shoveling his food in like a starving animal she almost wanted to stare at him as he ate in wonder, but of course, that would have been downright rude and definitely strange, so she just took another bite of her food as Sophia spoke again.

            “ _Perfect_.  You’re going to love Jean Luc.  Now, Soul?  I was wondering if you might share more about what you do.  Maka is your—oh what did Wes call it?  Master?”

            “Meister,” Alastair Evans offered.  He had been quiet until then, watching in silence as he carefully ate his breakfast, the aura of bored disapproval surrounding him mounting with every moment that passed.

            “Ah, yes, _meister,_ thank you dear.  Wes has told us things about what you’ve been up to, of course he has, and I try to help him with his little book by having the staff on the lookout for relevant material, but I’d love to hear it from you.  It all sounds so,” she waved her hand in a gesture that appeared at once emphatic and dismissive, “exciting.”

            Soul just shook his head.  “It’s been seven years, Mom.  I need you to be a little more specific.”  Maka almost kicked him under the table, but decided against it.  His soul was clearly in chaos.  Should she speak for them?  She just didn’t know what was okay, what was expected.

            “Your mother is trying to talk to you.  I can see you haven’t learned any better manners in your time away, son.  Perhaps you might start with that battle that was all over the news—I believe that’s what your mother was hinting at.  The DWMA was characteristically close lipped, but the rumors suggest you were there.  Were you?”

            “Yeah, Dad, we were there.”  Soul answered quietly.

            “And?”

            “And what?  We fought the fucking—“

            “Soul!  Such language!” his mother interrupted.

            “Sorry, Mom.  Freaking.  That better?”

            “Not really,” his mother shook her head unhappily.

            “Whatever.  We fought the Kishin.  He almost killed us and all our friends.  The only reason we’re still around is because a good friend sacrificed for us, for everyone—Crona’s the only reason you can still live this perfect little life.   Crona, and everyone at the DWMA, including me and Maka.”

            “Yes, well, Shibusen serves its purpose, I’m sure, but I’ve also heard that the accounts of the battle on the moon were highly—exaggerated—to allow the new Shinigami to consolidate his power over the nations of the world,” Alastair Evans’ tone was still decidedly bored, but his words belied the tone.

            Suddenly, Maka wanted to scream at him.  People had been hurt, _people had died_ , they had all almost died—and Crona—and this—this—

            He felt Soul grab her thigh and squeeze comfortingly, felt his wavelength reach out to hers, to console her, soothe her, even as he spoke quietly.

            “Bullshit.”

            “I don’t know what type of manners they tolerate at the DWMA, but while in our home, you will act as the gentleman you were bred to be.  Which brings us to the real point.  You will be graduating soon, yes?“

            “Yeah, so?”  Soul’s irritation with Alastair continued to mount, but his face never wavered, his disinterested mask of boredom very much like the one sported by his father.  

            “I think it’s high time we discussed your post-graduation plans.”  Alastair’s gaze on Soul was suddenly less bored, more focused.

            “Maka and I are planning to continue at Shibusen, enroll in some post grad classes, continue to take high level missions.  Eventually, I’ll probably take a death scythe post, not that it’s really any of your damned business.”  

            “I hardly think Shibusen an appropriate career choice for an Evans. Surely you must realize that.  No, the President of Juilliard is an old friend and I’ve already spoken with him.  We’ll arrange placement for you--I’m sure with some intensive practice, you’ll be able to meet their standards; your skills couldn’t have slipped _that_ far.  And, of course, we’ll see to Maka’s placement as well.  After all, she is an Evans now, too.”

            Soul snorted. “You’re fuc--freaking delusional.  Maka doesn’t play an instrument, and after seven years without so much as a how the hell are you, I’m pretty damned sure you don’t get a say in my ‘post-graduation plans.’  I don’t wanna be a musician, don’t need to be a damned musician because, in case you missed the memo, I’m the _Last Fucking Death Scythe._ ”

            Soul’s father, his face stern, waved a dismissive hand.  “That’s entirely irrelevant.  Juilliard has _always_ been your goal, and you will attain it.”

            “Like hell I will.”

            “Of course you will.  I’ve already set up an audition for you next month.  It’s a formality, of course, but a good showing is still important.  I’ve arranged for the best Piano tutor on the west coast to spend some time in Death City--”

            Soul was gritting his teeth by this point and looked ready to pounce, his soul torn between a fight or flight response.  Sophia must have seen it, too, because she cut off her husband, who appeared nothing short of shocked at the interruption.  

“Alastair,” she put one hand on his arm. “Soul has only just come home.  If this is a topic that upsets him, perhaps we might choose another and save this discussion for later?”  She sounded almost pleading, and Alastair sighed.

            “Of course.  We’ll speak of this another time, then.”  The pointed look he offered his son held an edge of promise.  “If you won’t entertain the thought of your future, perhaps you would at least be willing to speak of how your music is coming along?”  The man’s gaze was flat again, but Maka could feel the disappointment in his soul.

            “Oh, yes!”  Sophia brightened.  “I saw the article about the coronation of the new Shinigami!  There was a picture of you playing—well—piano, I suppose, right on the front page.”  

            “Oh, he did play,” Maka responded just as brightly, attempting to ease the tension because she was feeling more and more like she might Maka chop Soul’s dad, and that couldn’t lead to anything good.  “He was brilliant, but then, Soul’s always played so beautifully!  His music is really important to what we do, too.  Without it, we would have been killed many times over by now.”

            She was trying to show Soul’s dad how important music still was to his son, but she realized, too late, what a sobering thought she had introduced, and Sophia looked a bit stunned for a moment before recovering to steer the conversation in a more genial direction.  

            “That piano you were playing at the coronation was really something, though,” Sophia’s enthusiasm was forced, but she sallied forth nonetheless.  “Is it—did it really come out of your leg?”

            “It’s part of what I can do as a death scythe,” Soul shrugged.  His voice was casual again, almost bored, but she could feel the small kernel of pride, tiny beneath all the turmoil; still, it made her want to smile at how far he had come.

            “But that’s fantastic!” Sophia clapped her hands together in her enthusiasm.  “You must show us later, dear.  I’m sure we would all—“

            “I’m sure that our son sprouting a lethal _weapon_ in the house would be unseemly, dear,” Alastair said quietly before she could finish.

            “Oh—I suppose,” she looked unhappy.

            “But perhaps he would be willing to play for us on a more conventional instrument.  I’m sure we’d all like to see how his music skills have—progressed—in his time away.”        

            Soul’s fist clenched under the table, anger at his father’s dogged pursuit of the topic mounting again, and Maka grabbed his hand with her own, radiating comfort, seeking his soul and soothing it as he had done for her earlier. The man was unrelenting.  The scythe calmed at his meister’s efforts, and before more could be said, the doors opened and Aria and Wes appeared, Aria laughing, and both of them looking rather flushed.

            Wes strode over to take a seat, Aria in tow, pulling a chair out for her and sitting down himself.

            “Sorry we’re so late—we had a bit of an—issue—to handle.  We haven’t missed anything important, I hope?”

            Sophia tilted her head.  “I do hope everything’s alright?”

            “Oh, fine mother, fine.” Wes waved away her concern.

            Alastair looked annoyed as he leveled his gaze on his eldest son, but said nothing.

 

           

            The rest of breakfast was filled with idle chatter, mostly among Aria, Wes, and Sophia, with occasional input from Maka when a question came her way, and even more infrequent participation from Soul.  By the end of the meal, the mood in the room was considerably lighter, and Maka found her genuine like for the bride and groom to be growing exponentially.

            As everyone rose from breakfast, Alastair left claiming business to be handled, while Maka and Soul were cornered by the remaining members of the group.

            “So, I hope you two lovebirds don’t mind, but we’re going to need to separate you for the time being,” Wes said with a wide smile.

            “Why?” Soul’s utterance of the word was laced with heavy suspicion.

            “Well, you, little brother, will be coming along with myself and the other groomsmen for a fitting, and Aria and I thought it might do better for Maka to accompany the ladies for their own final fitting, give her a chance to bond with her new sister and mother, that sort of thing,” he waved his hand emphatically, his smile suspiciously wide.  “If, that is, it’s fine with your _wife._ ”  He turned to her expectantly, ignoring Soul’s glare.

            “I—I mean—I guess I could, that is—“  Maka stammered, feeling like a fish about to be pulled from the water and left to suffocate on the shore.  

            “Perfect!” Aria said happily, taking her hand.  “I’ve been dying for some alone time with my new sister.  Are you still meeting us later, Sophia?”

            The older woman nodded.  “I need to run a few errands first, but I should be at the salon on time.”

            “Wonderful!  We’ll see you then!”  And with that, Maka found herself being dragged to the other woman’s car and whisked away, Soul left mouth gaping in her wake, feeling like the other shoe was just about to drop.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Cinderella Dressed in Yellow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maka finds her time with Wes's fiance to be bittersweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this update took a bit-I struggled with this chapter. Thanks to rebornfromash and ilarual for being awesome readers.

As she closed the passenger door of the small Honda sedan behind her, she was surprised by how normal it was, this little red car amidst such stately grandeur. If her companion had ever been similarly struck, she did not show it now, simply sliding her seatbelt on and her key in the ignition before driving away.

Maka sighed with relief, glad to be out of that house and away from those people for the moment, though as she did, guilt washed through her. What right did she have to feel relief when she was here for him? Later she would have to make sure he was really okay after all that, but for now she couldn't. She didn't feel any particular turmoil in his soul as they'd parted, so she figured he was probably alright for the time being.

They were to the gate shortly, which was opened for them automatically, and driving through the same neighborhood full of ridiculously lavish houses she and Soul had arrived in just the night before. Aria flipped on the radio, plugging in her phone to put on some smooth Jazz that Maka was fairly certain Soul would recognize, but that she didn't. The driver adjusted the volume for a moment, setting it to ideal background noise level, before briefly turning her eyes away from the road and to her passenger.

"So, Maka," she began, her voice suspiciously casual for all the curious energy the meister could sense in the other woman's soul. "What's it like, being married?"

"Uhhhh," the meister fidgeted with the slick designer purse in her lap because how the heck would she know? She supposed being partners and roommates was much like being married, minus the whole romance and sex part, and decided to just pull from that experience.

"It's nice, most days. I mean, you met Soul. He can be snarky and difficult, but underneath it all, he cares, he's always there when I need him, and-um-mostly, he doesn't give me reason to want to chop him anymore. At least, not often."

"Chop him?" Aria looked a bit confused.

"Oh, um, well." That had been stupid. Too much truth, way too much truth. "What I mean to say is, he doesn't make me want to kill him often?"

"Oh!" Aria laughed, and the sound was warm and musical and comforting. "Well, that's definitely true love, then. And anyway, on those days you  _do_  want to kill him, there are much  _better_ ways to work through that anger, if you know what I mean." Maka wasn't sure what she meant, actually, but the knowing tone worried her.

"Well, I  _do_  sometimes drag him out for extra training when he's being particularly difficult."

The other woman laughed again, louder. "Is that what they call it down at the DWMA?"

The meister frowned, puzzled. "What else would you call it? I mean, I know you guys don't train exactly, but you are musicians, you practice right? It's like that. Extra practice."

"Oh honey," the woman next to her grinned. "We know all about 'extra practice.' Wonder if your boy is as talented as mine is-that run in the family, too?" The woman turned to Maka and waggled her eyebrows and suddenly, the meister went scarlet because she finally got exactly what her weapon's sister-in-law to be was getting at.

"Oh, uh, er…" she stammered, confused and embarrassed and having absolutely no clue how to answer because  _how would she know?_  Only, she was  _supposed_  to know and was this what sister-in-laws talked about? But she supposed it probably was if her experience with Liz was anything to go by, because the older weapon was constantly talking about her love life in the most mortifyingly graphic way possibly. So she improvised. "He's, uh, a really good pianist," she finally managed.

"I'll just bet," Aria laughed again. "Talented fingers and all that, don't I know it."

Maka was flaming; she could feel the heat, the shame, spread from her face down all the way down past her toes. Fortunately, Aria became quiet for a bit as they made it to the Interstate entrance and merging along with lane changes stole her focus. For her part, Maka was able to calm herself as she watched the greenery stream by at breakneck speeds-Aria clearly enjoyed driving  _fast_ -and, more collected than before, decided to try to steer the conversation away from the uncomfortable topic of sex. Because while she might be curious, interested even, in knowing what that would be like with her weapon, she had no experience to draw on and, after awhile, it would surely show. Eventually, the driver settled into a lane and was at leisure to talk again.

"So, Maka," Aria began, suddenly serious. "I'm glad you agreed to come with me-not just because I'd been hoping for some time to bond with my new sister, but because I had a question for you. If you decide to refuse, I'll understand, I promise, but it would mean a lot to me if you said yes."

"Um, okay, what is it you need?" Maka asked nervously. She liked Aria, even if the other woman seemed hell bent on causing her death by mortification this morning, but she didn't  _know_ her, and so, wondered what she could possibly want that had her so cautious.

"I was hoping you'd agree to be one of my bridesmaids. I  _know_  it's short notice, but since we're going to be family and since your husband is the best man, Wes and I both thought it would be fantastic to have you in the wedding as well. I don't have any sisters of my own, so I'd love to feel like I had one with me."

Maka was floored by the request. Why would she want  _her?_  They barely knew each other and she wasn't really-wasn't really what Aria thought she was, and Wes  _knew_  that so why would he help with this? But she could sense how genuinely the other woman meant it in her soul and didn't know what to do because she didn't belong there, didn't belong as a part of this, and yet, how could she refuse? She  _wished_  she belonged, that she was what she now pretended to be, but she wasn't, nor would she ever be, and the pain of that rose to the surface unbidden. She choked it down because  _now was not the time_  and snapped her jaw closed before shaking her head.

"I-it's just-" she tried to answer, still not knowing what to say. "It's-Oh!" A thought came to her and she grasped at it like a lifeline. "I mean, I don't have a dress for that, and surely-"

"That's no problem," the other woman waved a hand dismissively, taking it off the wheel and making the meister yet more uncomfortable. "The designer is a friend of mine. She said she should have a sample right at your size and she can do alterations based on your measurements in time for the wedding."

"Oh, um, that's good, I guess. But won't people find it-strange-since we just met and all?" She was fishing, but she didn't know what else to do.

Aria actually laughed. "They'd find it more strange if the groom's sister-in-law  _weren't_ in the wedding party in the circle the Evanses move in, to be honest, though that's not why I'm asking. Sophia suggested it days ago when she found out about you and Soul, then after I met you, I decided I  _wanted_  you there." The smile the bride-to-be flashed was soft and full of genuine affection, but as she glanced at her companion, she frowned, seeming to realize the meister's discomfort, "But really, Maka, I don't want you to do anything you're not comfortable with, so-" Feeling the disappointment begin to flood the other woman's soul, Maka shook her head again.

"No, it's okay, I'll, um, I'll do it. If you want."

"Fantastic!" The other woman practically squealed in her excitement. "You won't regret it, I promise."

The fact that Maka already was notwithstanding, because this would put her 'marriage' with Soul even more front and center, she just smiled back as they finally pulled into a space in front of a small shop. It was called "Precious" and until they actually got out of the car and stepped inside, Maka wasn't sure what they sold but, upon looking around to see everything from jewelry to picture frames inside, she thought it might be some type of gift shop. Apparently, the bride had a few errands to run before heading to the salon which was perfectly fine by her. Maka hung back, looking at some of the silver plated wares on a small table absently as Aria talked quietly with a clerk.

Maka's thoughts were on her weapon, wondering if he was really okay after their tense breakfast with his parents and how his own day with his brother would go when she heard the shop bell ring, indicating a new customer had come in through the door. Lifting her eyes automatically at the sound, she was surprised to see the tall blonde man enter followed closely by a head of stark white-Wes and Soul.

"What...?" She began but Wes just waved a greeting and stalked over to his fiance, sweeping her up in his arms and kissing her soundly. Aria didn't have time to be surprised and Maka quickly averted her eyes at the display to find her weapon standing before her.

"What are you doing here?" She tried again.

He look decidedly uncomfortable as he mumbled, "Wes forgot to kiss Aria goodbye."

Her eyebrows shot up at that. "So you two chased us down?"

He shrugged. "Not my call," suddenly he was very close, his hands on her waist, his breath in her ear, warm and intriguing, "sorry 'bout this, but Wes made it clear it'd look weird if we didn't," and then his mouth was away from her ear and before she could even process what he meant, she felt warm lips against her own. It wasn't long, a few second perhaps, but neither was it chaste as his lips moved almost eagerly against hers and she found herself responding because it was so  _nice._

Soon, too soon, his mouth was at her ear again and he said quietly, a bit breathlessly, "thanks for making it convincing, I owe you." He pulled away, they pulled apart, and Maka went scarlet as she noticed that Wes and Aria had concluded their own personal business and were staring at them with nearly identical knowing smiles. For her part, Maka wasn't sure if the impulse to kiss or kill Soul's older brother was stronger at the moment, so she turned back to Soul, feigning a final hug to whisper in his ear, "damn right you do," before pulling away.

"Well, little brother, looks like we both had business here," Wes said with a devious smirk before breezing past, Soul trailing helplessly behind looking red and more than a little dazed. She blinked after him. Since she felt about how he looked, she figured it was fair. It wasn't until the little bell rang again that she realized he may have just given her her first real kiss, because she certainly didn't count what Black*Star did on a dare when they were eight, and she wondered, still a bit stunned, if this really did count since it had been given under brotherly coercion. It had felt so good, though, so electric, and her own feelings were so overwhelming, that somehow she thought it might and she wasn't sure if she should be elated because  _Soul had just kissed her,_ or utterly depressed that it was only for show.

She was pulled from her thoughts by a chuckle nearby. Aria was grinning at her, several bags in hand. "That good a kisser, eh? You look like you just got back from the moon." Maka colored at that and smiled sheepishly. Not sure of  _what_ to say, she opted to say nothing at all.

This was turning out to be a hell of a morning, and if the whole charade was going to have her head spinning every which way, she wasn't convinced she would survive the weekend. Pre-kishin had nothing on this.

An hour later, they were sitting in a small bridal salon in Stamford, tea and pastries laid out on a coffee table surrounded by plush little victorian couches. It was so quaint it was almost kitsch, but Maka liked it all the same. The proprietor, an aspiring bridal designer, was actually an old friend of Aria's, a girl she had met in high school and had somehow kept in touch with. As the bride explained earlier to Maka, realizing what designing for an "Evans" wedding could do for her old friend's prospects, Aria had insisted on using her for all the women's attire, much to Sophia's unhappiness. Sophia had yet to arrive, and Maka was currently seated amidst most of the bridal party waiting for the bride to be fitted and make her appearance. They were all women, of course, but their reasons for being there varied widely. Seated on the couch next to her were two cousins of Wes and Soul on the Evans side. Both girls appeared to be in their early twenties and had the same pale, watery-eyed look as their uncle. The taller of the two seemed shy, while the shorter was occasionally eying Maka with decided distaste while pointedly avoiding any conversation with her though they sat side by side. The other three women seated across from her were a college friend of both Wes and Aria, tall and fair with raven hair, and two of Aria's cousins, one dark skinned and one who had a decidedly asian cast to her features. The two cousins were chattering excitedly, in their own little world, while the college friend minded her tea and her business.

It was an odd group, and not being acquainted with any of them, the meister felt decidedly out of her element. Seated across from her, the college friend offered her an almost comforting smile, and Maka smiled back automatically. She was pretty sure Aria had mentioned she was a flautist for an acclaimed orchestra, but such things tended to go over her head, and with so much information being thrown at her so quickly, the generally meticulous meister had been unable to grasp the details she normally would have. She'd almost wished for a notebook, because this whole thing was feeling more and more like some sort of twisted field test.

"So, Maka, right?" The woman asked suddenly in her deep, rich voice, and Maka nodded. "I'm Genevieve. Aria and Wes have had so much to say about you and your husband. And he's really the Last Death Scythe! It was all over the papers after the moon went black. And you were really, truly there? Fighting-a monster, right? It all sounds so dangerous and frightening!"

"It-I mean," Maka took a deep breath, not quite having expected to have to discuss such painful memories. "It was difficult," she finally settled on.

"And you really are a warrior, then? You go into battle with-well, your husband turns into your weapon, that's what they say. Honestly, I'd never even heard of a human weapon before I met Wes, and then read about everything on the moon-it's all so fascinating! And to be friends with a living god! I've heard people go on about how Soul Evans was a fool to give up the piano and traipse off to God knows where, but honestly," the woman waved one elegant, long fingered hand dismissively, "one simply cannot compare being a concert pianist to saving the world. I, for one, believe he made the right choice. Most especially if it means he landed himself such an adorable wife! No wonder he ran off."

Maka had no idea how to respond, or even if she was expected to respond at all. The woman was very friendly, charming in an odd, intrusive way, and impossibly elegant and beautiful on top of it all. Her clothes, a red silk blouse and black pencil skirt accented with chunky gold jewellery, bespoke taste and wealth, but unlike what she had sensed from Soul's cousin, she did not feel disdain but real admiration from her wavelength. She was spared answering at all when she heard a gasp from the woman next to Genevieve, one of Aria's cousins, who had spun her head towards the main dressing room door. Maka followed suit and almost gasped herself at what she found.

Aria had come out and she looked absolutely stunning.

The dress had a beaded, fitted bodice, and was sleeveless with a sweetheart neckline. The skirt though, was puffy layers of tulle beaded through, sparkling and gorgeous. Aria looked like an absolute princess complete with crown-the dress suited her perfectly, and Maka found herself smiling because she was absolutely sure her husband would be floored. Then again, Wes would probably be floored if she walked down the aisle in a paper sack-they really did seem to love each other, and Maka couldn't help but to feel both thrilled for them and a little envious, because she wanted that, too. There was a time, not long ago, when she wouldn't have dreamt it possible, when the example her childhood set before her had soured her expectations and left her believing that love was a fantasy, a fairy tale that people told each other but that no one ever found. She had since changed her views, slowly, subtly, but even still, she knew what Wes and Aria had found was rare and precious.

Maka heard a soft sound like a snort next to her and moved her head slightly to notice Soul's two cousins speaking quietly to one another, their backs still pointedly turned to the bride who was being seen to by the designer near the dressing room door. The shy one would giggle slightly, then shake her head periodically.

"But really, she should have minded Aunt Sophie. To drag us to this-place," the bolder of the two wrinkled her nose, "when she might have had Vera design for her. It's comical. But what can one expect from someone so-common."

"She is a very fine cellist, though, you know, and Wes seems to like her," the other girl said, voice unsure.

"Well, it is better than some people have done, I'll admit," she said airily. "I mean, really, to wed some-some- _mercenary_ , to go out fighting  _monsters_ , it truly is beyond belief. Then again, he always was an odd one. It's little wonder."

Maka had heard enough. To insult the bride-she had to force herself to calm. To insult herself, she could deal with. But to insult her weapon? Apparently, this girl needed to find out that insulting a  _mercenary_  was never wise, to pretend like said mercenary wasn't seated right next to her on the couch was even more foolhardy, and to insult that mercenary's weapon was downright suicidal. She felt her fingers itching for a book that wasn't there and was about to try to  _use her words_  when someone else used them for her.

"Oh, Lucretia, I hadn't noticed you there, so lovely to see you again," Genevieve addressed the shorter woman with practiced ease. " _Very_  daring of you to be sporting last season's dress, I might add. If you aren't careful, you'll start a trend."

"This-this isn't-" the blond began to sputter, indignant. Maka noticed that Aria's two cousins finally went quiet at this, their eyes turned to the other women, perhaps sensing a show, or perhaps worried for a brawl, who could say?

"I was sorry to hear that you were rejected by the philharmonic  _yet again._  Really, they must be deaf," the woman across continued, purposefully oblivious to the mounting horror of the one she addressed.

Lucretia had gone scarlet with something like rage and Maka had to suppress her laughter because it was probably bad form to laugh at her 'husband's' cousin, even if she had been about to deck her only moments before.

"And Minerva, you're looking very well," Genevieve's smile became softer, more genuine as she turned to the quieter of the two. "I was sorry to miss your last concert, but I heard your harp was the talk of the show."

"Thank you," the taller blond offered softly as her sister stewed next to her, shooting her an indignant glare that made her wither slightly. Maka didn't have difficulty at all believing that this haughty girl was related to Alastair Evans. Mercifully, the exchange was cut short as the bride finally approached, the designer done fussing over her. She tilted her head, expression neutral.

"Well?" her eyes scanned the group expectantly.

"Oh, Aria, hun," Genevieve stood and sauntered over to her friend, grinning widely as she stopped before her. "It's  _perfect._  Wes is going to positively faint!"

Aria matched her grin as the others all offered their approval, all save Lucretia who was notably silent, and Minerva who was always quiet. Aria's cousins, for their part, squealed in turn and forced her to make a circle, to show off the low cut back and flounce of the wide skirts. There was some chatter among the four of them along with the designer for a few minutes and Maka watched silently, feeling ill suited to partake of such a thing, before Aria finally put her hands on her hips to eye the group expectantly.

"Well, then, Emily, seeing as mine fits perfectly, we should probably check the others."

The mousy little brunette nodded, directing each woman to a dressing room before coming back to stand before Aria and Maka once more.

The woman, Emily apparently, eyed Maka speculatively for a moment, then took a measuring tape from one large skirt pocket and began to manhandle her. Maka squeaked at first, finding it rather intrusive, but said nothing, allowing the woman to work. Finally, she stepped back and nodded.

"Mmm, you were right, Ar, she's a 6, a solid 6, I have just the thing!" She was grinning widely, her face alight. "Be right back," she said happily and scuttled off into a door in the corner, leaving Maka and Aria standing alone in the center of the salon.

"You look, really pretty," Maka managed, feeling ridiculously out of her element. Aria smiled back happily.

"Thanks. And thanks again for doing this, I know it must be-"

Whatever she was going to say was cut off suddenly as Sophia Evans strode up to them with a loud "Aria, darling! You look radiant!" The woman swept into the room like a force of nature, her smile bright. She moved close to her daughter-in-law to be and greeted her with two light kisses on the cheek before doing the same to Maka, leaving the meister feeling even more odd and dazed. "I  _know_  I was unhappy that you'd chosen your own designer, but really dear, she's done marvelous work. I daresay she'll make a name for herself quite soon. Even Jean Luc confided that he plans to use her for the Collins' wedding!"

"Oh, Sophia, that's fantastic! Em'll be ecstatic!" Aria looked so genuinely thrilled for her friend that Maka couldn't help but to smile, too.

"Speaking of Jean Luc," Sophia frowned. "Is he not here yet?"

"No, no, not-" Aria began, but then stopped as another presence swept in. The man was short, possibly not breaking five feet, and completely bald. He wore a lavender shirt with some sort of frill at the front and impossibly elegant, impossibly textured grey slacks. He looked both refined and absurd, and radiated an arrogance that Maka found immediately off putting. Nonetheless, she forced a smile as Sophia introduced the man, and endured his nauseating air kisses as well as his intrusive stare as he looked her up and down.

"My, my, Sophia, dear, you were spot on, the girl is very pretty, but  _completely_  unrefined. Well. Looks like my work is cut out for me," he circled her, taking out a small, silk covered notebook from Death knew where to jot down notes with a fancy gold pen. "Cool colors, certainly, though clearly she looks good in red as well. Dark colors suit, no pastels certainly, soft fabrics. You say she needs something to fight in as well?" Sophia nodded and Maka frowned, what was this now? "Mmm. Nasty business, but I think I can manage. I've requested some footage, it should help. Yes, yes, and practical shoes for that," he made a face. "Though, based on that picture you forwarded me, we can't possibly do  _worse._  Alright, then," he put his notebook away and tilted his head at her for a moment, considering.

"I assume she'll need measurements for the dress, so make sure those get sent along, shoe size as well, if you please. I should have some things ready by Friday, definitely something for the rehearsal, more for Sunday, and anything else can be sent along to Nevada, if it must," he made a face that exhibited some note of distaste at that. For her part, Maka was becoming more and more indignant. Who did this man think he was, speaking about her as if she weren't  _right there_? Was this some, what, wealthy blue blood thing, to ignore people? It was infuriating. She was about to speak her mind, to protest that she didn't need all of this and she certainly wouldn't be dressed without her consent like some, some  _doll_ , when the man simply nodded to Sophia.

"Well, then, I must be off, but I think we can definitely make a Cinderella out of this one. Be sure to call me with those measurements. I look forward to Friday!" And then, as quickly he had come he was gone, and Maka was left flustered and irritated with no one to vent her spleen on but Soul's mother and Aria, who was sporting a knowing smile.

"That was-that-" Maka stammered. Aria laughed at that, but Sophia nodded and smiled.

"Isn't he  _marvelous?_ " she breathed. "Just wait, you're going to  _adore_  whatever he comes up with. Trust me!"

As seemed to be a pattern today, before Maka could even consider responding, Emily breezed back in holding a zippered garment bag over one shoulder.

"Well, then, shall we?" she offered, and led the still stunned meister into one of the small rooms along the wall, Sophia and Aria staying behind and chatting idly.

"Well, then, Maka," the woman smiled at her as she closed the door behind her. "It's lucky you're a common sample size, even luckier I've got the  _perfect_  dress for you. Honestly, it's what I would have suggested had I all the time in the world." She had hung the bag on a hook and began unzipping it, revealing a splash of white and royal blue. She removed the dress from the bag and the meister couldn't help it, she smiled. It was beautiful, with a royal blue bodice and short, flouncy, sheer white skirt, along with sheer little white cap sleeves. The other woman looked to Maka expectantly, and she suddenly realized why-she would need to strip down to try it on.

She began to remove her things and, finally left in a bra and panties, Emily made a noise in her throat.

"You'll need to remove the bra too, for now. I think you can get away without it anyway."

"Oh, right then," Maka said, embarrassed, as she unclasped the bra. The shorter woman immediately handed her the dress and Maka stepped into it, Emily zipping the back for her and making a pleased hum.

"Yes, yes, it's perfect!" Skeptical, because while the dress had been lovely on the hanger, few things were so nice on, Maka turned her eyes to the full length mirror and shook her head because surely, the girl she saw wasn't her. The dress fit like a glove, accentuating her small curves and her long limbs. If one ignored the occasionally darker line of a scar along her arms and legs, she almost looked pretty.

"You don't like it?" Emily frowned from just behind her in the mirror.

"Oh, no, it's very pretty!" Maka said quickly, not wanting to upset the designer. "I'm just-not used to wearing this type of thing, is all."

"Oh!" The woman laughed as she walked closer and began pulling at the fabric as she circled her, "well, you'll have to get used to it if you're an Evans!" She continued to walk around her, pinning here and there and jotting down notes in a little book.

Maka shook her head again. "Soul and I, well, we don't have much occasion for-I mean-"

"That's right, Ar mentioned your husband doesn't really get on well with his parents. That's a shame," she said as she continued to work.

"He has his reasons," Maka couldn't help but to defend.

"Mmm," she hummed. "I'm sure. Well, alright then. I think I'll need to take the bust in the tiniest bit, but it fits well otherwise. Go show Aria and I'll see to everyone else, then."

With a slight nod to herself, the designer left to see to the other women, and Maka trailed after shortly. As she emerged, she saw each of the women in her own royal blue gown and almost gasped. They all looked so-so-perfect. Each had a gown to suit her, each was a vision, and Maka felt plain and gangly beside so much elegance. The eyeroll and whisper of Lucretia did not go unnoticed as she stood with her sister and aunt in a mid length, short, slinky number, but it was quickly replaced in her vision by Aria, who stood before her with a broad grin, still a vision herself in her stunning dress.

"Oh, Maka love, it's perfect!" she clapped her hands together once happily, her eyes moving to the designer, who was busily flitting about Genevieve.

"Mmm, told you I had somthing, Ar. It only needs a bit of taking in, shouldn't be an issue. But you," she turned her eyes back to Genevieve, "did  _not_  mention you were planning on growing out your assets!"

Maka turned her eyes to the tall woman and noticed the issue. Her reasonably endowed breasts were definitely straining against the fabric of her long, sleek gown. Genevieve practically pouted.

"I  _did_  tell you I was on hormone treatments! The initial fitting was  _two years_  ago. They were bound to grow!" she protested.

Emily sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "You did. I just didn't realize they'd-grow so much, I guess. Well, it can't be helped, I'll take new measurements and figure it out."

Hormones-grow out-what now? Did that mean? Ah.

Suddenly, Maka's respect for Aria and Wes went up another notch, their acceptance of difference, their embracing of others stacking up along with their good will and good humor to make her think that whatever Soul might lack in a father, he was more than compensated for by a brother, and soon, a sister who clearly cared for him and others, a brother and a sister to be proud of, and she found herself sorry that they were not truly her family. Not for the first time, the meister wished she were married to her weapon in truth, internally mourning the reality that her carriage would soon enough become a pumpkin once more.


	5. Insult to Injury

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Maka is busy at the bridal salon, Soul has a fitting and a few long lost family members to deal with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter marks the first switch to Soul's POV, which will happen only a few times in this story. It made it particularly difficult to get down. As usual, thanks to rebornfromash and ilarual for their support and superb beta work--this would be much crappier without them.

Soul had no words, his mind blank and numb at his own actions as he trailed after his brother to slide into the passenger seat of the small black SUV because he'd just kissed his meister.   _He'd just kissed his meister,_ and it had been fantastic at the same time it was horrible because he'd sprung it on her and in the end it was just a part of this stupid fucking game they'd been forced to play, that he had practically begged her to play, and it wasn't fair that something that was just an act had felt so real and good and _right._ He wanted to shout his elation to the heavens at the same time he felt like crying his despair because how long had he wished he could do that?  How many dreams had he had of kissing her, more than kissing her?  And yet, to do it like _this,_ a part of some cruel farce, was never what he’d wanted.

 

Was it wrong that he was glad that his first kiss was with Maka even if it wasn't real?  Even if he was the only one for whom it actually _meant_ something?  It was pathetic, true, that he was nineteen and had never before kissed a girl, but when the only girl you'd ever actually wanted to kiss was your partner of seven years who wanted nothing to do with you or _anyone_ romantically, it did tend to make things pretty fucking difficult.  

 

Then again, maybe it was just _him_ she didn't want.  Soul knew it wasn't her first kiss, though who and when she had kissed someone else was something she'd never been willing to tell him, only that it happened.  He had to fight down the dark tendrils of jealousy that clawed at his heart at the thought because, really, who did he have to blame for the knowledge but himself?  

 

He remembered teasing her that no one would want to kiss a violent bookworm when he was young and stupid and oblivious to his own growing feelings, to the fact that _he,_ in fact, wanted to kiss a violent bookworm, and she had haughtily replied that at least she had actually been kissed.  He remembered, though they were only fourteen, feeling the wave of sickening shock hit him at the knowledge because even then, so long ago, he had somehow come to think of her as _his Maka._ The only problem was, Maka was not some possession and she had never belonged to anyone, least of all him.  He might desperately wish to possess her heart as fully as she had long since possessed his, however unwittingly, but you could wish in one hand and shit in the other, as the saying went, and all that wishing had done for him was end in a lot of long, hot showers alone.

 

The scythe was pulled from his near brooding by a light cough, his brother turning a questioning gaze to him for an instant before returning his eyes to the road.

 

"Something wrong?"  Wes asked a bit too casually.

 

"You," Soul practically growled.

 

"Yes?  Me?" His brother replied innocently.

 

"Yes.  You.  Are an asshole."  Soul knew he sounded sulky, but he couldn't be arsed to care, he was too--pissed, annoyed, upset, stunned, elated, _something._  

 

"You wound me, little brother.  And here I've been working so hard to look out for your best interests," Wes replied in mock sorrow, unable to keep the grin from his face.  

 

"Doesn't change the fact you're an ass," Soul grunted.  "Doesn't change the fact that Maka's probably gonna chop me to death next time we're alone all because you just _had_ to chase your fiancé down and plant one on her and that somehow meant I had to do the same all because you fucked up and told people we're married.  Death dammit Wes, do you know how much those chops _hurt?_ Not cool.   _So_ not cool."

 

" _Death_ damnit?" Wes laughed.

 

Soul pinched the bridge of his nose because he was in no mood to be teased for having picked up Maka's Death Child speak; spend enough time at Shibusen and it was an inevitable fact of existence.

 

“Just--shut up, will you?”  the scythe responded sullenly, slouching further into the leather of his seat and wishing himself far, far away.  Or back in that shop kissing his meister again.  Definitely the second one.  

 

When Wes just chuckled and turned up the violin piece that was coming through the speakers, Soul kept his gaze pointedly on the scenery streaming past, feeling like he was ten years old all over again.  He was pretty sure it was Vanessa-Mae--the electronic accompaniment screamed it--and was equally sure Wes had chosen it on purpose in order to torment him, playing on his deep and abiding dislike of all things electronica. Asshole.  

 

Soul gazed boredly through the window, trying to tune out the electronic violin crappola. Being surrounded by so many trees was so different from what he was used to now, in the barren waste where Death City stood nestled, that it made him feel small and strange.  Sure, there were trees in or near the city--the training forest, that odd ring of woods a few miles from the city that no one could ever quite account for, but for the most part, he had grown used to sand and open sky.  It had taken time.  When he first moved there, so long ago now, he had felt exposed in middle of so much nothing, but now it felt like home, it felt like the place where the scythe had found _himself,_ truly and at last.  This felt--like being sucked into the vortex of his past, all the trees looming, menacing, making him feel tiny and insignificant like he had when he was a child.  It was odd, too.  It wasn’t as though they had never returned to the East Coast or even Connecticut for missions, wasn’t as if he hadn’t been amongst trees many times since moving to Death City, but somehow it _felt_ different now that he was home.  Somehow, he felt less like the Death Scythe he had become and more like that lost, cowering little boy.  He fucking hated it.

 

Only able to take looking at the green streaks of passing trees and all the memories they dredged up for so long, Soul turned his eyes back to his brother, who was humming along to the music in the most obnoxiously self-satisfied way.  

 

“How much longer ‘till we get there?” he grumbled.

 

Wes flicked his eyes over and shrugged.  “Not long, ten more minutes maybe.  Mom insisted on that expensive Italian tailor in Westport.  You know how she is with things like this.”

 

“Unfortunately, yes.  You think they’ll be able to fit me in time?”  Soul couldn’t keep the hopeful note out of his voice that, perhaps, this wouldn’t quite be possible.  

 

“Oh, I think they’ll manage, never fear.  Throwing enough money at a problem does tend to render solutions, and Mom has plenty of money to toss around when she wants something done.”

 

Soul heaved a sigh.  “Riiiight.”  This type of shit was exactly what he was glad to leave behind, all this privileged bullshit, this focus on just the right image.  Yet here he was.  For the twentieth time at least since he’d arrived, he wondered why he’d come

 

 It’s just a few days, just a few days, just a few days and then never again, he let the mantra repeat in his head and in his heart because he’d put up with this for 12 years--he could manage a few days for his only brother.    

 

Ten minutes later, true to his brother's word, they were pulling into a spot in front of the shop in Westport.  The city had a quaint little downtown, filled with the sort of upscale stores and restaurants that were frequented by the type of people who lived here, the type with money and lots of it.  The shop they parked in front of was brick and unobtrusive on the outside, without even so much as a real sign, but inside, it looked like a palace, with fabric draped walls and mirrors, mahogany everywhere, and plush furniture.  It instantly brought Soul hurtling back to his childhood, to his first fitting for his first performance suit, and he felt like he might be sick, the bile instantly rising, hot and thick in his throat.  

 

He swallowed it down, swallowed down the bitterness of the memories, and looked around, his bored gaze a well worn mask for the inner turmoil, for the hurt and angry child he could never quite cast aside.  

 

His eyes finally settled on three men occupying a set of corner couches, three men with tan skin and brown eyes, three men Soul had hoped never to see again.  He took in a deep breath and strode forward to sit casually at the end of one couch next to one of his cousins, settling his limbs into a slouch, his mask still firmly in place.  

 

Wes had stopped to speak with an attendant, so for the moment Soul was alone.  With _them._

 

"Well, well!" He felt a thick hand drop roughly on his shoulder and scowled involuntarily.  "If it isn't little Soulie!  Thought you got the hell outta Dodge," the man next to him said too cheerfully.  Luca had always been the most brash of the three, and as the other man moved a hand to brush back perfectly coiffed auburn hair from his eyes, Soul felt suddenly as small and weak as he had been when they were children.  

 

It wasn't that his cousins were bad people exactly, not exactly.  It was more that he'd been younger and strange looking and therefore an easy target for their pranks and ribbing.  It was more that he refused to show his hurt, had donned the mask well and early, and that drove them to want to break it.  Soul never let them, never let them see that they won, always fucking won, he saved that for the privacy of his own room.

 

Wes never knew--they were smart enough not to bother him when he was there; they knew how protective he'd always been of his baby brother.  

 

It wasn't like it could happen often--they only saw the DiFranco cousins and their parents at rare holidays and occasional swanky parties--but that didn't make it any less hurtful, it didn't make it any easier that even his own damned blood treated him like a freak.  

 

"Luca," he said, a clipped greeting.  "Antonio," he nodded slightly to a tall, dark haired man across from him.  "Miguel," he nodded again, this time to the sandy haired man next to Antonio.  They all wore fitted designer jeans and button downs and Soul instantly loathed them all over again.

 

He probably wasn't being fair--they were all grown ups now and that was long in the past--but that didn't make the feelings of hurt and anger and _inadequacy_ any less real.  It also didn't mean he could get out of talking to the other men in the here and now.

 

Death this trip was a fucking mistake; he'd deal with his meister's ridiculous lech of a father a million times over to avoid--this.  

 

"So Soul," the man next to him began again after a moment.  Luca had _always_ been the ring leader--some things never changed.  "Wes tells us you ran off and made good--never shuts up about it, really.  Last Death Scythe, they call you, fighting off monsters and witches and the forces of evil."  The man's smile seemed genuine, but Soul didn't relax, couldn't.  "Our baby cousin the hero!  Looks like you did okay for yourself.  Not exactly a _normal_ path, but really, you never were."

 

The scythe couldn't tell whether or not that was meant to be a dig, and really--the realization was sudden and forceful--he didn't fucking care.  He wasn't that little kid anymore and he could give a fuck less what Luca or Miguel or Antonio or _any fucking one_ thought about him. The only people whose opinions _mattered_ to him were Maka, first and foremost, and their friends, and maybe Wes.  That was it.  These three clowns could go to hell.

 

The realization made him feel like a stone had been cast off from around his neck.  Sure that kid was with him, that bitter little brat who had pretended not to care, but now he was an adult who truly didn't give a fuck and it was...liberating.  

 

Soul shrugged his response.  "I'm a weapon.  It's what weapons do."  

 

“What’s that like, anyway, fighting monsters?  It sounds sort of--messy.”   Antonio, the youngest of the three DiFranco cousins and only a year older than Soul, had leaned forward in interest, though he was wrinkling his nose in distaste.

 

Another shrug.  “You get used to it.  Anyway, Maka does most of the work.”  

 

“That’s right,” Miguel grinned at him.  “You have a _meister._  Sounds kinky.”  He waggled his eyebrows at this and gained an eyeroll for his trouble.

 

“Some people call them technicians,” the scythe’s tone was bored.  “They wield the weapon.  Not like I can wield myself, now is it?”  He tried to stay polite.  It was normal, for outsiders not to understand how anything at the DWMA worked, weapon-meister pairs included.  

 

“But _your_ technician or meister, whatever, is a _girl_ right?  That’s gotta be hot," Miguel pushed. The middle cousin and Antonio’s older brother, he’d always been the pervert of the group, the one who figured out that Uncle Alastair had a stash of classic Playboy magazines in his office.  

 

“Actually,” a new voice interrupted, and Soul wasn’t sure if he should breathe a sigh of relief or of despair as he looked up to see his brother, the oldest of the cousins by a slim year, “That _girl_ is quite the accomplished woman, not to mention stunning, and she’s also his wife.”  

 

The knowing grin on his brother’s face rankled, and it turned out irritation won out over either relief or despair.   

 

“Wait, wait--you’re _married?”_ Luca said, incredulous.  Soul shrugged, his default position, and felt like murdering his older brother.  

 

“You’re, what, 19 now?” Miguel cut in.  “And you went out and got _married_?”  He looked utterly shocked.  

 

“But you didn’t have a wedding?”  Antonio raised both eyebrows.  “I mean, Aunt Sophie would never--”

 

“We did it in Atlantic City,” Soul cut him off, wanting to end this subject before it could get going.  Fucking Wes.  “No big deal.  Moving on.”

 

Wes had taken a position standing near the arm of the couch next to Soul.  There were two men behind him who Soul _didn’t_ recognize, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.  

 

“Yes, moving on,” Wes grinned down at him.  “We should probably do what we came here for.  Eric Jones, Connor Avery,” he gestured first to a dark skinned man a few inches shorter and much more built than he was, then a pale, rail thin red haired man of middling height,  “this is my little brother, Soul,” his brother’s hand flicked his way, “and those three are Luca, Miguel, and Antonio DiFranco, our cousins,” he gestured to each in turn, eyes sweeping the group.  “And now that we’re all suitably acquainted, I’m fairly certain Signore Falvo has a busy schedule, and would appreciate our cooperation in completing final fittings and measurements.”

 

For the first time, Soul noticed a short, balding man assessing their group from a few feet away.  He was wearing an impeccably fitted white shirt and slacks, and was practically bouncing, though with nervousness or simply excess energy the scythe wasn’t really certain.  At least he didn’t seem quite as above it all as these sorts often did, and he felt mild relief at the fact.

 

“Yes, right, I need--you there,” he began in a thick, Italian accent as he waved over at the man Wes had just introduced as Eric Jones, “In dressing room one, you,” he gestured to Connor Avery, “in two,” and you, he motioned to Antonio, “in three.  And of course, Mr. Evans,” he looked to Wes, “will come with me to the main room.  Try on the the tuxedos you find--I or one of my assistants will be in to see you shortly.  The rest--you may wait here, please.”  

 

With that, he moved briskly away, Wes following.  The other three moved away as well to their respective dressing rooms, leaving Soul alone with Luca and Miguel.  Just fucking perfect.  

 

At least Miguel now seemed occupied, so that was a plus; he had broken out his smartphone and was busily web surfing or texting or something.  For his part, Luca looked bored, which was always trouble.  Soul mentally braced himself and hoped it was just a gross, knee jerk overreaction, a ghost of his undying past.  

 

"So what's it like, being married?" Luca suddenly asked, voice casual.

 

"Uh, cool, I guess," Soul shrugged.

 

"Bet it's a lot more than that," Miguel snickered from the other couch.  "You should _see_ his woman, Luc.  She's fucking hot."  To punctuate his point he sprung up and shoved his phone in the other man's face.  

 

Soul sputtered out, "what, how did you even...?" as Luca let out a low whistle.  

 

"Damn you don't mess around, do you?"  His cousin looked up at him with a grin.  

 

"What are you even looking at?"  Soul asked, unable to keep the tinge of annoyance from his voice as he leaned over slightly to view the phone.  "Oh," he finished lamely.  It was _that_ picture.  He and Maka had attended the ball commemorating the defeat of Asura a few months ago and Maka had worn what her weapon had since mentally dubbed _that dress--_ slinky, silver, strapless, long with a high slit up one side and a plunging neckline--Soul had feared he'd die of blood loss that night, and keeping his mounting attraction in check had been damned difficult.  He'd forgotten that the reporters in attendance had snapped a picture of the two of them dancing together, something he'd been far less reluctant to do than he'd revealed to his meister at the time.  Looking at the picture, they looked like a couple, even a happy one, and his cousins were right, Maka looked as smoking hot as she did in his memory of that night.  Too bad the rest was a lie, including the caption: _Last Death Scythe Soul "Eater" Evans and his meister Maka Albarn, love is in the air?_

 

Clearly, looks could be deceiving, and he wished that that reality didn't _hurt_ so damned much.

 

"Bet she's a real hellcat in bed" Miguel was grinning at him like a mad man.  "I mean, I saw some of those training shots. The girl is _flexible._ Maaaan I would _so_ hit that.  Guess it's why you locked that shit up, but dude, better keep a leash on her because she must have guys drooling after her."

 

The weapon was scowling at his cousin, "She's not my fucking property and I didn't marry her to keep her locked up.  Fuck, Miguel, do the women of the world a favor and _never marry."_

 

It still gave the death scythe a slight thrill, to talk about Maka as if she really _were_ his wife, though it was bittersweet because soon enough they would be back to their default holding pattern and he hated the very thought.  What he didn't hate was the thought of what Maka would be like in bed, because fuck had he thought about it, and fuck were the images of what that might be like now parading through his head in an endless loop at the very idea, and fuck did he _wish_ he actually knew, not that it was any of Miguel's or anyone else's damned business.  

 

"Toooouchy," Luca put in.  "Look, we get it, hot wife, you don't like other guys looking.  But seriously, hot as she is, I'm surprised you'd tie yourself down.  I mean, Last Death Scythe and all, hero who saved the world or whatever, the girls must be _all over you."_

 

Soul shrugged because it was true enough that he had plenty of girls throw themselves at him--just not the one he actually wanted to throw herself at him.  

 

"Unless..."  He raised his eyebrows, then waggled them, "oh you sly dog!  You're keeping the hot wife to yourself _and_ cleaning up on the side!  Shit, didn't know you had it in you, cuz," the redhead grinned.  

 

"Man, must be fucking _sweet,_ " Miguel added.  "All that _ass, damn._ "  

 

Soul couldn't believe what he was hearing, what they were implying.  What.  The.  Fuck?

Did they actually think he'd cheat on his meister, his _Maka_?  Hell, he'd never touched another woman and they weren't even together!  He would never, ever--never--no fuck no.  How dare the motherfuckers, how fucking dare they insult his meister that way, insult _him_ that way by suggesting, suggesting--he'd fucking kill them, fucking bastards.

 

His fists clenched tighter and tighter in his near homicidal rage as he stood suddenly, looming over both men, the very idea that he would _ever_ betray her in any way, let alone the way that would hurt her most, that he would even _want_ to, had his vision going red, his heart racing with the barely contained urge to protect his meister from anything, everything, from _this_ and from douchebags like his cousins.

 

There was a flash of light and he didn't even register what it meant--just that he wanted them to fucking stop, to fucking take back the bullshit they were spewing, to fucking--

 

Looking down, the death scythe noticed that his cousins were staring at him, staring at his transformed hand, at the sharp, wicked black and red blade it had become, in a mix of fear and awe, the expressions so strange on their faces that it startled him out of his rage

 

He realized, suddenly, that the flash had come from him.  He had transformed without willing it, had totally lost his cool, had been ready to _hurt_ them for their foul words.

 

Fuck, he was better than this.  Maka had made him better than this.  

 

He took one deep breath, then another, choking down his rage, willed his hand to return to flesh in another flash of light and, unclenching his fists forcibly, shoved his hands into his pockets.  

 

"You will _never_ disrespect my meister that way again," he spoke down at them, his voice deceptively cool, the rage beneath still barely contained, still palpable.  "Fuckers like you, hell, like _me,_ aren't fit to lick her fucking shoe, and you will _never_ imply otherwise again, are we clear?"

 

The two men exchanged nervous glances and nodded as one.

 

"Sorry dude it was--just a joke man.  A joke," Miguel stammered out.  Luca didn't even try to speak, just continued staring at him like he'd grown a second head.  Well, good.  Let him fucking stare.

 

"Next time you joke, make sure it's actually fucking funny," the scythe said and then walked over to sit heavily on the empty couch.  As he raised his eyes, he noticed Wes standing there in his tux, watching, and wondered how much he'd seen.

 

Fuck, could this day get _worse?_

 

At the thought, Soul couldn't help but to wonder how Maka was fairing, and hoped it was a shitton better than this--Aria seemed pretty chill, so with luck, her bridesmaids would be, too.  It was unfair, dragging his meister through this bullshit, as much as he selfishly _needed_ her here, and he could only hope she was doing alright.  He certainly couldn't wait until this ridiculous separation was over and done.

 

Their earlier kiss suddenly leapt to his mind, unbidden, and he thought that, perhaps, this separation, all of this utter crap, was the universe punishing him for that stolen moment of forbidden bliss, must be.

 

To top it off, Wes was still staring at him, looking like some sort of Adonis in his bloody tux, black and fitted with white silk underneath, his body tall and lean and fit, his features practically fucking chiseled, his blonde hair looking just slightly mussed in that intentional way, and Soul wondered for the umpteenth time how they could even be related, let alone brothers, the demonic freak and the perfect specimen, brothers, another cosmic joke.

 

"You're up, Soul.  Signore Falvo needs you in the main room."  Wes thumbed over his shoulder towards the other side of the shop and Soul rose with a heavy sigh, ignoring his brother's too knowing eyes.

 

"Whatever," the scythe muttered as he trudged over to where Wes had directed, seeming reluctant but truly glad to put some distance between himself and his cousins, if only for a little while.   Much to his chagrin, his brother followed as he made his way to the doorway leading to the main dressing room, and clapped him on the shoulder briefly.  

 

“Proud of you, little brother,” he finally said.

 

“Uh,” Soul turned around at the doorway as his brother removed his hand.  Wes wore a fond smile and it almost made him feel…  warm.  Underneath all his meddling and teasing and all the unfounded jealousy, his big brother had always been there for him, had always been his greatest ally and staunchest defender.  It was easy to forget, far too easy, but it was so.  

 

Soul smiled back, a little sheepish, a little embarrassed that his brother must have witnessed that scene, and maybe a little proud, too, because in the end, he had kept his cool.  “Uh, thanks.  I guess.”  

 

He turned back to enter the dressing room, running his hand through the back of his hair in thought.  

 

So maybe this day was going to suck, this whole trip was going to suck.  Maybe he had to deal with the sweet and perfect hell of pretending that his meister loved him as much as he loved her, and maybe he had to deal with his dick father and his asshole cousins and a whole crowd of family and friends he’d just as soon never see again.  Maybe he’d rather be hit by a truck, or hell, almost cut in half by Crona again than here, any fucking where but here.  At least, through this whole thing, his brother still had his back.

  
Then again, he always had.  

 


	6. Stayin' Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul and Maka get dragged to a jazz club and drunk shenanigans ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, we return to Maka's POV, where we will be staying for awhile to come. We also veer into some M territory. There's no smut, but it does flirt with the line, so NSFW to be on the safe side. As usual, thanks to rebornfromash and ilarual for being awesome betas and just damned good sounding boards and writers in their own right.

After the salon and lunch, and then, more errands, Maka had figured they'd return to the house, and they did, but only to change.  Apparently, the bridal party had _plans_ for the evening, courtesy of the bride and groom, and both Soul and Maka were expected to partake.

 

She'd been directed to a large guest bathroom in the upstairs of the main house, told by Sophia that her stylist had left something for her just for this evening, and was only slightly disappointed to note that Soul was nowhere to be found.  As Aria would tell her later when she asked, the boys had already come and gone.

 

Probably for the best.  As much as she had missed him all day, she still had no clue how to behave around him after that kiss.  The mere thought made her flush scarlet all over again and, spotting a large box on the dressing table, she strode over and opened it if only for the distraction.  

 

What she saw made her jaw drop.

 

They expected her to wear-- _this_?

 

She shook her head as she lifted the little leather skirt that was even _shorter_ than her typical meister wear, along with the slinky silver backless halter, with a scoop front that looked as though it would dip _far_ too low.  The box also included some gold bangles, a small gold clutch, and a pair of strappy and very high black heels, along with a lacy black thong.  No bra was forthcoming.  

 

Maka cringed.  She couldn't wear this--she'd look like--like-- _Blair_.

 

But how could she _not_ wear it when Soul's mother had gone to so much trouble?  It was an odd choice, for her would be mother-in-law to dress her so--so--provocatively, and she silently wondered if the woman weren't desperate for grandchildren.

 

She flushed again at the very notion, at the idea of her and Soul doing--doing--well, what it took to make grandchildren, and thought that Soul's mother was in for a hell of a wait.

 

With a resigned sigh, she decided it was best to just get dressed and so she did, wearing her hair down to offer a slight bit more _cover,_ and only just glancing in the mirror above the sink to assure herself that her makeup was still in place before making her way downstairs, feeling wobbly and awkward in the too high heels.

 

Again struck by the sheer _grandeur_ of the place, Maka paused midway down the stairs to stare at the large crystal chandelier that sparkled above the entryway, far closer now in the curved staircase.   She had to remind herself that this was a _home,_ the very home her weapon had been reared in, yet it was more posh than the finest hotel, and for not the first time, the meister felt entirely out of her element.  With another sigh, she took the rest of the stairs to find Aria waiting for her at the bottom.  She was wearing a short, tight red sleeveless dress that flared out at mid thigh and highlighted her curves.  It was vibrant yet tasteful, much like the woman herself--Maka thought it suited her well.  

 

If her whistle of appreciation and wide smile was anything to go by, then Aria approved of Maka's outfit in turn.

 

"That what Jean Luc left?"  

 

Maka just nodded, trying to ignore her embarrassed flush as she looked around for Sophia, who had mentioned something about meeting her downstairs.

 

"Well, that man may be a pretentious little thing, but he knows his stuff.  Your boy'd better stick by you, 'cause the other boys'll be all over you."  

 

Her would-be sister-in-law was grinning, and there was a smug glow in her soul that Maka didn't quite get, but she didn't have time to work it out as Aria grabbed her by the elbow and led her towards the door.

 

"We should get going if--"

 

"But what about Sophia?"  Maka stopped, confused.  

 

"Oh, right!  Thanks for reminding me!  Sophia really wanted to see what Jean Luc had come up with for the evening, but had to run out--some sort of emergency with the flowers for the rehearsal dinner--so she asked me to snap a picture."

 

The other woman pulled her phone from her clutch and said "smile" before snapping a few shots of a somewhat confused Maka.

 

"There we are.  Now, ready?"  Maka just nodded because she was as ready as she was likely to be, allowing herself to be tugged along to the sleek black limousine waiting just outside the door.

 

After they were seated and settled, a glass of champagne in front of each of them at the bride-to-be's insistence, Maka asked where they'd be picking up the others.

 

"Oh, we have this baby to ourselves!  The others are in different cars, though we can rearrange the ride home to our liking--and if _your liking_ includes some alone time with that fine husband of yours, well, I'd be more than happy to help a sister out," Aria said with a wink.

 

The meister colored at the implications but gave a short nod.  "That'd be perfect," she somehow managed to get out without tripping over the words, and the knowing grin the other woman gave her had her flushing scarlet all over again.

 

It wasn't that the meister planned to use the car _for that_ , of course not.  She just knew her weapon, knew after a day like this that Soul would be in desperate need of time apart from other people, and she figured this was the ideal way to give it to him, implications be damned.  It wasn't as though those implications really bothered her anyway, other than to remind her that they weren't true, never would be true.  

 

Maka was a grown woman and she loved her weapon; she could admit that she wanted to be with him, _wanted him,_ if only to herself.  The very idea of it made her feel overheated, even in the air conditioned confines of the limo.  The thought of it after that kiss, after the impossibly soft and warm feeling of his lips on hers, made her feel strange and entirely overwrought.  

 

Yes, this trip was definitely going to be the death of her.

 

"Where are we going, anyway?"  Maka asked after a moment, more because she needed to distract herself from her thoughts than because she cared.  

 

“It’s a surprise.” The other woman smiled.  

 

“A… surprise?”  What type of surprise required Maka to dress like she worked at Chupa Cabras?  She wasn’t sure she _wanted_ to know.   

 

Aria laughed, then, shaking her head.  “Not really, though your expression was priceless!  Wes was right, you two really _do_ need to get out more--so this’ll be perfect.”

 

“ _What_ will be perfect, exactly?”  Maka couldn’t help the suspicion in her voice, she really couldn’t.

 

“It’s just a Jack and Jill, hun, nothing to worry over.  Wes knows the owner of this great little jazz club in Manhattan, so we’ll have our own section. It’s damned exclusive, but that’s never seemed to stop an Evans before.  Don’t worry, you get used to it.  I just try to remind Wes _not_ to wave his big stick around too often,” her laughter was rich and genuine as she finished with,  “well, not _that_ big stick, anyway.”

 

Maka colored for the umpteenth time that day--she really did _not_ want to hear about her weapon’s brother’s ‘big stick’--before forcing out a reply.  “Ah, that sounds nice, I’m sure it’ll be fun.  Soul really likes jazz, so he’ll be happy.”  

 

“Oh, I know your boy’s a jazz fan--it’s one of the reason Wes settled on The Silver Trumpet for this thing.  He really wants his brother to enjoy himself, you know?  Wants this visit not to be a one time thing.  He’s missed him.”  She was smiling softly, fondly, and a little sadly.

 

“It--it won’t be,” Maka said just as softly.  “I’ll make sure, I promise.  I can’t promise he’ll see his parents, but we will visit you and Wes.”

 

Aria’s smile widened.  “That would be great.  He really did catch himself a good one.”  She picked up her champagne then, motioning to Maka to do the same, and clinked their glasses.  “To catching the good ones,” she said, and though it wasn’t quite true, Maka still couldn’t help but to agree.  

 

Their talk drifted away from the Evans boys to settle on the preparations for the wedding, and the rest of their hour drive was companionable.  Aria insisted that Maka share the bottle of champagne with her and, not really knowing how to refuse though she had never really had much alcohol, she complied.  By the third glass she understood why people enjoyed the stuff.  Her head felt light, like it might float off if it weren’t attached, the world was just a little tilted, and the giddiness in her stomach felt warm and right.  She suddenly couldn’t _wait_ to get to the club and dance, and hoped her weapon would at least indulge her in a turn on the floor.  

 

When they pulled in front an inconspicuous brick building of middling size with a line in front that stretched half way down the block, Maka knew it must be the place, though it wasn’t exactly impressive.  There wasn’t even a sign!  Aria didn’t spare a glance at the line, just walked straight up to the bouncer at the door and shared a few quiet words Maka couldn’t quite make out from the few feet she stood behind her.  He nodded and ushered them both inside, and Maka tried to ignore the annoyed scowls of the people still stuck in line.

 

Aria wasn’t kidding when she said being an Evans had its perks, though of course, Maka had already started to figure that one out on the plane.  She also wasn’t kidding when she suggested this place was _exclusive._  Dark, and smokey, dripping in red velvet and black lacquer, it looked like some sort of black room echo made real.  Maka wasn’t sure if Soul wouldn’t hate it just for that, but with the sensual music coming from the group on stage, she figured he’d be fine if he had _that_ to distract him.  Distracted herself by the odd nostalgia that hit her in entering this completely new, completely crowded space, she had paused and stared, and Aria had left her behind.  Maka began to look around, seeking the bride and the rest of their group, when she felt a light touch at her elbow, and feeling his soul reaching out before she even turned, she knew exactly who the fingers that had grazed her skin belonged to.

 

“Hey.” She turned to offer him a soft smile.

 

“Hey.” Soul was smiling back when she met his eyes.  She hazarded a glance at the rest of him and noted the red dress shirt and black slacks.  He looked _hot,_ like a dressed down version of his black room self.  His very presence made her feel suddenly too warm.

 

“Long day, huh?”  she asked dumbly.  Why was this so awkward?  It was just _Soul_.  Her weapon.  Her partner.  Her--no.  She wasn’t going to go there, wasn’t going to let those thoughts take hold, even if her head felt light, even if the feel of his lips on hers still lingered so many hours later, even if she had the almost painful urge to repeat that experience.  

 

“Mmmm, yeah,” he agreed, taking her arm and steering her across the club.  “Wes doesn’t know how to shut the fuck up sometimes.”  

 

“Hmmm…  I could see how that might be--” she began, then as she noticed they were edging around the dance floor, she tugged him to a halt.  “--hey, I wanna dance.  Can we?”  

 

He stopped with her, surprised, and was shaking his head before she even finished.  “You know how much I hate that sh--”

 

“Oh come on, pleaaase?”

 

He was decidedly unhappy.  He eyed her up and down with the most guarded look she’d ever seen him wear, and he _always_ looked guarded, before shaking his head again.  “No, I don’t think that’s--a good idea, okay?  Let’s just go join the others.  It’s Wes and Aria’s night, ya know?”

 

“Yeah, alright, I guess,” she relented with a huff, and if she was sporting a decided pout, well, her head felt so floaty and warm that she really couldn’t care.

 

He led her to an area that was raised and cordoned off with thick red velvet rope reminiscent of some sort of fancy red carpet premiere--clearly he knew where he was going, so he must have gotten there far before she had.  There were several large half circle booths occupying the space, some filled with barely familiar faces she had met this afternoon, some with people she had never seen.  Soul dragged her to one in the middle where Aria and Wes were snuggled together on one side, while Genevieve was chatting up a dark skinned man of similar age who was dressed slightly more casually than most of the other guys.  As they approached the table, Wes and Aria looked up from where they had been talking quietly and animatedly together, and smiled almost in unison.  

 

“Ah, little brother, I see you managed to find your wayward meister,” Wes said lightly.  “We’ll scoot in so you can--”

 

“Wes, darling, nonsense.  Eric and I can scoot.  Can’t be ousting the bride and groom, now can we?”  And with that, Genevieve began to scootch over, followed by the man next to her, who must have been Eric.

 

Maka slid in next to the stranger, with Soul sliding in after her.  He looked mildly annoyed, though about what, Maka couldn’t say.  As they settled, she heard Aria speak over the music, “you two should order drinks--this is a party, after all!”

 

Soul began to shake his head, though he smelled faintly of champagne himself so he must have had something, but Wes grinned his brother’s way.  “Mom and Dad’s tab.  May as well live it up.”

 

Her weapon shrugged and his brother waved a server over, a short, perky girl in an equally short, perky dress.   Soul ordered a whisky sour and, at the expectant look from the bride and groom, Maka chimed in with a request for a strawberry daiquiri.   Drink orders went around the table, and the meister mumbled for her weapon’s ears alone, “shouldn’t they be carding us?  I know we’re allowed to drink in Death City at 16, but out here--”

 

The scythe gave a half shrug.  “They don’t card in the VIP section.”   

 

Oh.  That Evans thing again.  It really did take some getting used to, didn’t it?

 

Their drinks came quickly, more quickly than Maka would have thought possible, and as a large, pink, iced number was set before her, the man next to her, Eric, whistled.

 

“Sweet drink for a sweet girl, eh?”  He grinned at her, scootching a little closer.  Apparently, Genevieve had become absorbed by talking to Aria and Wes, leaving him without company.   “I’m Eric, by the way, Eric Jones.  Aria’s cousin.”  

 

“Ah--Maka.  Nice to meet you, Eric,” she smiled back, because after her time with the Evans’ cousins, it was a nice change to talk to a friendly family member.  

 

"So," Eric glanced between her and Soul, who was currently turned slightly away from her to listen to the jazz trio on stage as he sipped languidly on his drink.  She wasn’t at all surprised that he was avoiding small talk. "You came here with Wes's little brother?"  His voice was pitched low, for her ears alone.

 

"Um, yeah.  He's my weapon and he--"

 

"That's right!"  Eric snapped his fingers as if he'd just remembered something.  "Wes mentioned the kid was a weapon, a Death Scythe, right?"

 

"That's right." She smiled proudly.

 

"So he turns into this giant scythe and you swing him around, am I right?"

 

"Yep!" she agreed brightly.

 

"That--is so--badassed.”  He looked genuinely interested, genuinely awed, and it felt _good_ after all the Evans bullshit she’d had to stomach earlier.  Yet, it was somehow strange as well--he seemed _too_ close, _too_ interested.    

 

"Um, thanks?"

 

"Anyway, I guess that means we have something in common."  Eric was grinning at her, and Maka took a long sip of her drink to avoid looking at him too long, her flush of embarrassment making her feel young and stupid.  He was just _talking_ to her.  Why did she feel so flustered?  

 

"We--do?" She managed after emptying a good half of her drink.

 

"Yup--we both swing big sticks around for a living."  He laughed, sounding so warm, so at ease.  She thought she heard Soul grunt at that, but it must have been her imagination since he was currently downing the other half of his drink, his eyes still pointedly on the jazz group.  When the waitress brought him another drink, he didn't protest, but swallowed half of that as well in a single gulp, and Maka restrained the urge to chide him, sucking down the rest of her own fruity concoction instead. It was delicious and, as the warmth continued to spread through her, so at odds with the chill of the drink, she was grateful when the waitress set a second one down in front of her as well.

 

"So," she blinked at Eric, who was sipping at his own drink.  "You're a meister, too?"

 

It was the only conclusion her hazy brain had been able to come up with.

 

"A what now?" That warm laugh escaped him again.

 

Oh.  He couldn't be then.  

 

"A technician.  We wield human weapons.  Like I was saying?"

 

"Oh!"  He laughed louder, waving her off.  "No, hockey.  Minor league."

 

"He's damned good, too!" Aria called from across the table.

 

"You only think that because you don’t know shit about hockey!" he called back, and Aria just laughed and returned to her conversation.

 

"Anyway," he said with a practiced smile.  “You wanna dance?  I'm sick of just sitting here."

 

"Um..."  She looked to Soul, who was still ignoring them both, then back to Eric and shrugged.  "I guess, sure."  Because she didn't want to be rude and she _had_ wanted to dance and Soul had made it clear he wasn't going to.

 

"Great," he said, the enthusiasm clear on his face.  He seemed genuinely interested, friendly and good humored, and Maka thought maybe it would be a good thing, dancing with him.  After all, she couldn't pine for a partner who didn't want her forever, could she?  It might be nice, for once, to dance with someone who actually _wanted_ to dance with her.

 

"Hey, Soul?"  She nudged his arm and he turned to her, his expression decidedly sour.

 

"We need to get out.  Please?"

 

"Whatever," he said, voice flat, before scooting out of the booth.  

 

Maka scooted out after, followed by Eric, and it wasn't long before they found themselves on the dance floor.

 

It wasn't a slow song, and she had no idea how to dance to this type of music.

 

"I'm, uh, not a very good dancer," she looked up at him sheepishly.  

 

"No worries, I'll lead," he smiled down at her as he grabbed her by the waist with one hand, pulling her closer.

 

And they started to dance.  

 

It was nice.  He moved well--though their bodies were heated and close and Maka kept wishing it were Soul dancing with her in spite of herself.  And then, eventually, the song ended, drifting into something slower and even more sensual, and Maka was surprised by a familiar voice, low and rough, as he said,

 

"Mind if I dance with my _wife?_ "

 

Eric spun around at the touch on his shoulder, and Maka just caught his frown.  

 

"Of course," he nodded.  "I didn't realize you two were a thing," he added, as if there were some need to explain his actions.  Maka went scarlet.  It wasn't as if anyone owed Soul an explanation about dancing with her!  It was--

 

Her thoughts were cut short by his hand on her waist pulling her even closer than Eric had.  She shivered at the contact, so warm, even as she glared up at him.  "What the hell was that?  You said you didn't want to dance!"

 

"Changed my mind," he said lowly.  

 

"Well, it was rude," she was indignant even as she was _glad._ She would much prefer dancing with her weapon.  

 

"Don't care," he half shrugged, his hands at her waist skirting dangerously close to her ass as they swayed together languidly, her own hands around his neck.

 

"You know," he said after several moments of simply swaying, "since we're supposed to be married and all, we should probably make this look good."  His breath was hot on her face as he spoke down at her, the scent of alcohol strong.  

 

"Look good?" Her eyebrows shot up in question.  

 

"Yeah," he breathed, and his hands were definitely in ass territory now, resting just at the swell.  It was nice.  It was distracting.  She should probably chop him, only she couldn't, not here, not now.

 

"Soul, I don't--"

 

"Look around," he commanded suddenly, spinning them towards another part of the dance floor. "Look at Wes and Aria and, hell, half the room."  

 

And she did.  And her eyes went wide.  

 

Wes and Aria were on the dance floor, though Maka wasn't convinced what they were doing could be termed _dancing_.  Wes had his face buried in his fiancé's neck, her hands were very clearly groping his ass, and their lower bodies were pulled flush against one another.  Maka went scarlet, her eyes sliding elsewhere in embarrassment.  They lit on Aria's two cousins she had met earlier that day at the salon. They were not quite dancing as well, bodies closely pressed and faces angled together in what could only be termed an extremely heated kiss.  

 

Oh.  Right.  Her eyes moved away, the scarlet of her skin still bright.  She hadn't realized they were an item.  Maka found herself hoping that they were both related to Aria but not to each other even as her eyes slid over couple after couple in varying stages of _get a damned room already._

 

"See?" Soul's mouth was at her ear now, his breath making her shiver again in something like anticipation, something frighteningly akin to want.  

 

"Yeah..." she breathed in return.  And then his mouth was on her neck, and his hands on her rear, and all higher brain function ceased, to be replaced by a haze of alcohol and lust.

 

Nobody had ever touched her like this, kissed her like this, and she wasn't sure if it felt so good because she was drunk or because it was _Soul,_ and just then, she didn't much care.  Her hands tangled in his hair and she guided him to her mouth, surprising him for an instant before he eagerly returned the kiss.  It was longer than their first and even more heated, their tongues meeting and exploring, hot and insistent and oh so needy.  And his _hands_ , squeezing her ass, running up and down her torso to graze the sides of her breasts, running up her shirt and down her bare back--it felt like he was marking her, claiming her, with each caress, every touch.

Then again, her logical mind reminded her from the depths of her haze, wasn't that the point of this little act?  They were playing their roles, had to play their roles, had to make it look real, didn't they?

 

The thought hurt, but this all felt so _good_ that her rational brain, still swimming in a mire of intoxicated need, couldn’t tread water for long, and she was plunged back into the depths as he spun her around to mold himself to her back, sucking on her neck in the most sinful way.  If this was how he faked it, then Death help the woman who earned his lust in truth _-_ -Maka was pretty sure if this was just a farce, then the real thing would kill her.  Her rational mind resurfaced just long enough to remind her that they shouldn't be doing this--that she would surely regret it in the morning, they both would.

 

The rest of her told her rational mind to fuck off.  

 

He pressed himself further into her back, his hands digging into her hips as he moved his own hips against her, rubbing on her rear deliciously even as he sucked her neck yet harder.  She gasped at the feel, of his teeth as they nipped her, of the hardness that was pressed firmly against her ass.

 

_The hardness that was pressed firmly against her ass._

 

Soul was... aroused?

 

From her?   _For her?_

 

It couldn't be.  Surely not.  There was want in his soul, pure and clear, practically consuming her in its intensity, but that didn't mean _she_ was the cause.  It must be all the women around them, the big breasts half exposed, the pert asses barely covered.  It must be the alcohol, the music, the visual feast of flesh.

 

Surely it couldn't be her.  

 

The thought overwhelmed her.  This was wrong.   _This was wrong._

 

"I--need to go to the bathroom," Maka stammered out suddenly, tearing herself from his grasp to stagger her way to the back of the club.  She didn't turn around to see his expression, but then, she didn't need to--there was confusion and something frighteningly akin to hurt writ large within his soul, and she didn’t understand and she wasn't sure she wanted to.  

 

She found the bathroom easily enough--her meister instincts never really left her, so she'd subconsciously cased the place and spotted it from across the club on the way in.

 

Now she was grateful for those instincts as she stumbled inside and began to splash cold water on her face, ignoring the sympathetic stare of the sole bathroom attendant.  She eyed herself in the mirror, hardly recognizing her as _her,_ her skin flushed, her silver top dipping low to flash cleavage that, while modest, was absolutely _there._ She didn't see the child-woman now, the Maka she had grown accustomed to, no.  This Maka was a full fledged woman with _needs_ , this Maka was lusting for her partner in a way that couldn't end well for anyone, this Maka had just spent the last while making out with said partner and having the time of her life.

 

This was stupid, so very very stupid.  She needed to get ahold of herself.  She was drunk, far too drunk, for the first time in her life, and she knew, _knew,_ she would gladly do things that would be phenomenally stupid in full sobriety and by the light of day.  Alcohol made her stupid.   _He_ made her stupid.

 

And even if her weapon wanted the same things she did for the moment?  It didn't _mean_ anything.  He was drunk, there were hot, scantily clad bodies everywhere doing hot, shameful things.  Of _course_ he was aroused.  It had nothing to do with her.  To--to let this go any further would be idiotic, so painfully idiotic.  She needed to clear her head.

 

Grabbing a proffered cloth from the silent attendant, she smiled gratefully (if a bit forced) before making her way to a stall.  After several glasses of champagne and two large, strong daiquiris, she had to go in earnest, and tried not to think about how she would deal with Soul when she was through.

 

The fact that Maka could still feel his soul and that he seemed unhappy, no, angry even, really wasn't helping.  She made sure he would read little from her, as she had all night, as she did too often.  Normally, he did, too, but tonight he was either too drunk or too overwhelmed to bother.  

 

As she was finishing up, she heard the main door open, caught two newly familiar voices, and went rigid, her hand poised over the knob to the stall.  She pulled it back, in no frame of mind to deal with _them_ just then.

 

"You _did_ see them, though, Minerva.  It was disgusting.  They looked like they were about to rut in the middle of the dance floor.  And _that outfit._  If the skirt were any shorter she'd be naked, and the top leaves nothing to the imagination.  No _wonder_ he fell for her if she's that easy.  Soul always was more feral than human."

 

It was Soul's cousins.  Maka could hear the sink running, the nervous tittering of the younger sister.  She clenched her fists tightly, anger rising.  She needed to hold it in, hold it together.  She felt a pang of sympathy for her weapon, sudden and strong, because if this was his family, no wonder he had run away and never looked back!

 

"You know, that's really not fair, though," Minerva said, voice timid.  "Soul was always so quiet as a child, even if his looks were strange, and--"

 

"At least Soul has an excuse," Lucretia scoffed.  "He _is_ a freak--it can't be helped, I suppose, that he'd be like a trained dog on a leash for that slut who wields him-- _wields him_ , can you imagine?  As if he could be anything _normal_ when he can become--become a massive bladed _thing._ But Wes?  Wes has no excuse, and his so called _fiancée_ was all over him like a cheap coat."

 

Maka was shaking now.  She wanted to knock down the damned stall and put them both in their place...  

 

Minerva tittered again at that, then the sink shut off and she responded.

 

"You're terrible."

 

"No, _they're_ terrible.  Come now, you can't honestly tell me you're okay with this complete pollution of our pristine gene pool, now can you?"

 

If Minerva answered, Maka missed it as the door opened and both went through.

 

It was a good thing they'd left--she was shaking in rage.  She was lucky--no _they_ were lucky--she hadn't lost it.  Perhaps the sluggishness the alcohol brought extended to anger as well.  

 

She took in a few deep, calming breaths, counting back from ten before opening the stall door.  After washing her hands and avoiding any further eye contact with the mirror, any further visual confirmation of just how flushed she was, of just how little she was actually wearing, she thanked the attendant and made her way out of the bathroom to find her weapon.

Soul was no longer on the dance floor, which didn’t surprise her.  

 

Maka could feel his soul back at the booths and he was _pissed,_ absolutely livid, and she figured it must be at her.  She needed to go--fix this, somehow, though she had no idea how she could, what to do.  Everything was such a confused jumble, such a damned mess, that she wanted to run, to go back to Death City, to go back to _before_ when things had seemed far less complicated, when her unrequited feelings weren’t swimming in such dangerous waters.  

 

Making her way through the crowd, she finally arrived at the booth where her weapon sat, and while his face was a mask of calm, his soul was in complete turmoil. Yet, it wasn't directed at her like she'd thought, no. It was directed at the three men who sat across from him, three men Maka had yet to meet.  She felt relief wash through him as she approached, watched as he scooched in for her before she even had to ask.  She scooched in next to him and gave his thigh a calming squeeze under the table, trying to soothe him with her wavelength.  She was here for him and this much, at least, she knew how to do, even through the fog of alcohol, the confusion of the last half hour.  

 

The waitress approached before a word could be exchanged, and Maka ordered a screwdriver--she'd heard they were good--and was surprised to hear Soul ask for bourbon.  He already had another empty glass in front of him, and she silently wondered just how much he’d had to drink while she was trying to get her shit back together in the bathroom.  

 

As the waitress scurried off, she felt the eyes of the trio across the table on her before she looked up to meet their bold stares.  One looked bored, but the other two were practically leering. She felt her weapon's anger begin to spike at that and gave his thigh another gentle, reassuring squeeze before removing her hand to set it primly above the table and grasp her newly arrived cocktail.

 

"So, Soulie-boy.  Gonna introduce us to your little friend?" The man on the end said with a lecherous smile.  He wasn't bad looking, with his thick auburn locks and dark brown eyes, but his leer rendered him hideous.  

 

Soul said nothing for a few moments, frowning, then shook his head in disgust.  "Luca," he practically spat the name.  "This is my _wife,_ Maka.  Maka--Luca, Antonio, and Miguel DiFranco, my _cousins_."  The last word was spoken with decided distaste.

 

Maka nodded towards each in turn with a politeness she could not feel--anyone who had upset her partner this much didn't deserve her politeness.

 

"Soooo Maka," the sandy haired man Soul had introduced as Miguel leaned forward just slightly.  "You're even more beautiful in person.  How'd an asshole like Soul manage to snag a total babe like you?"

 

Maka wanted to punch that leer right off of his smug little face--she was afraid Soul actually might.  

 

"Soul is a man of many talents," she said casually, her polite smile never wavering.  "But as his cousin, I'm sure you already knew that."

 

Miguel shrugged, but before he could respond, the dark haired man Soul had introduced as Antonio shook his head.  "Seeing you in person, it's hard to believe you fight monsters," he wrinkled his nose in distaste, and the meister had to stifle an eyeroll.

 

"Hell of a dancer, too," the man named Luca cut off any possible response. He was eying her like a particularly juicy cut of steak, and it made her stomach turn. Her fingers itched for a book again. "You gonna dance with us, too?" He continued, and his leer was wider, if possible, than Miguel's had been. "I mean, we're family now--it's only right."

 

"No," Soul snapped before she could answer and, finishing his drink in one rough swig, turned to her.  "We're gonna go back out on the floor.  Together."  His gaze was no longer bored but fierce, relaying a possessiveness she could feel in his soul yet could not at all understand.  Perhaps it was simply that he wanted her away from these men who belittled him, belittled them both, but she began to shake her head because she was nearly done with her oversized screwdriver, and her head was feeling light again, and, after last time, she knew that dancing was a _very bad idea._

 

And yet.   _And yet..._

 

_Wasn't it part of the act?_

 

They needed to maintain the ruse, right?  The idea of dancing with him sent a pleasant tingle up her spine.  Why not enjoy the show?

 

Though her head shook no, she said "alright," and scooted out of the booth to stand, Soul quickly following.  He took her hand and began to lead her away, guiding her towards the dance floor, and Maka looked back just long enough to see his cousins gaping after them and to flash them her most brilliant smile.

 

She supposed it was time to show them exactly how her weapon had managed to snag a babe like her, nevermind the fact he didn't really want her in the first place.  

 

As they reached the middle of the dance floor, the music thrumming and sensual, she held out her hand to run down his chest for a moment, before letting him pull her in closer. His stare was heated, intense, and she matched it with her own.  

 

Maka knew his cousins were staring.  Let them stare.  Let them all stare.  Let the whole damned room stare--this was a show, after all.

 

She dipped her body low for an instant, ran her hand down the length of him and back up, her whole body alight with alcohol and adrenaline and sheer lust.  She heard him groan slightly as she brushed a hair too near his crotch.  

 

It felt like they were the only two people in the room, in the whole damned world.  Her blood was on fire and she burned for him.  It was intoxicating, _he_ was intoxicating as he pulled her close to kiss her again, fiercely, possessively, branding her as his for the world to see.  

 

He pulled away from the kiss, dipped her low for an instant, then spun her around to press himself to her back again.  His arousal had returned, and this time, she arched herself into it, into him, reveling in his groan of approval, in the feeling of his hands sliding up the outside of her bare thighs.

 

"Soul," she breathed as she felt his mouth hot on her neck again.  

 

"Maka," he whispered against her skin.

 

It really was a hell of a show. Too bad it was only a show for one of them.  Too bad the feelings that overwhelmed her were all too real.

 

As the song trailed off, she felt his hands graze the sides of her breasts again, and she couldn't help it, she let out a soft moan.  It was so good, he was _so good._

 

And then she flushed as she opened her eyes and realized Aria and Wes were standing a mere few feet across from them, wearing matching maniacal grins.

 

It took everything in her not to push Soul away and run screaming.  

 

Feeling her stiffen against him, Soul stiffened himself and ground out.  "Can I help you with something, Wes?"  His hands still rested possessively on her hips.

 

"Well, _little brother,_ if we're going to be alive for the family luncheon tomorrow, we should probably head out."

 

"Whatever," Soul grumbled without moving.

 

"You two need one of the limos to yourselves?"  Aria asked innocently, far too innocently.  

 

"Um yeah, if it's okay?"  Maka could feel herself go scarlet, the heat of embarrassment and sheer possibility flooding her once more.

 

"No problem.  Sure you two could use a bit of time alone after all that _dancing._ "  She gave the meister a ridiculously smarmy grin, one echoed again by Wes.  Soul, for his part, didn't even dignify the matched expressions with a response, merely grabbed his meister by the hand and towed her through the crowd and out the door to the waiting limo.  

 

They tumbled in together, and though Maka was surprised, stunned really, as her weapon pulled her onto his lap to kiss her again, his tongue hot and oh so right in her mouth, she didn't show it.  His hands began roaming again, and she kissed him back because Death did she want this, she really did, and the privacy glass was up, and they were driving, and it was just them, alone, in this big cushioned space, and she could feel his desire spiking as his lips found her neck again and licked and sucked and _bit_.  One of his hands began to creep up between her thighs, and, hell oh hell, her whole body was on fire, the heat between her legs nearly unbearable.

 

But there was no one left to act for, not here, and whatever lust he was feeling, it must be a product of alcohol and stimulation, all that bare flesh--it wasn't for _her_.  They shouldn't do this.   _They couldn't do this._ Soul didn't want this, not really, not with his meister.

 

It was difficult, it was impossible, it was the hardest thing she had ever done, but Maka pushed him away.  

 

She was panting as she slid out of his lap, gasping out, "okay, we can--um--stop the act now."

 

For the barest instant, he wore a look of shock, like he had just been punched in the gut, and she felt a flash of overwhelming _hurt_ from his wavelength before she felt nothing, saw nothing, his face the mask of apathy once more.  She instantly missed the hungry look in his eyes, like he wanted to devour her whole.  Even if it had only been the alcohol, it had still given her a taste of the forbidden, and she hungered for more of what she could never really have.  

 

They sat in silence for a minute then an hour, and Soul still said nothing, did nothing.  Eventually, Maka was convinced that the hurt had never been there--she had been projecting her own hurt, that was all.

 

It wasn't like he cared, not in that way. Sure he loved her--as a sister, as a best friend, as the closest thing he had to real family.  That didn’t mean he was _in love_ with her.  She had never been his type, she knew that.   It wasn't like he _wanted_ her, not really.  Still, the pretence--the idea that in some universe he might actually desire her--had been nice.  

 

When the limo pulled up to the guesthouse, both weapon and meister wordlessly slid out into the driveway, wordlessly trudged up the stairs to their bedroom, wordlessly changed into pajamas, Soul in the bedroom, Maka in the bathroom.  

 

She spent several minutes in the bathroom, splashing her face with cold water for the second time that night, trying to dissipate the lingering heat and mounting dread.  Once she was as calm as she could manage, Maka crept back into the bedroom, hoping he was asleep, and slipped into her side of the bed.  He lay on the other side, over as far as he could go, his back to her pointedly.

 

He must regret it, even if it had been just for show.

 

Staying to her side of the bed, she turned her own back to him.  Afraid to anger him.  More afraid of what she might do if they were too close, got too close, afraid the heat might take her again, afraid he was still drunk enough to let it take them both, afraid of what they could do, no, of what they surely _would_ do if it did.  

 

If he regretted what they'd done in the club already, then Soul would regret that more; he wouldn’t know what he was doing, he wouldn’t _mean_ it, even if she did.  The thought of it was too much to bear.  She would never do that, to him, to them.  

 

This whole night was a mistake.  This whole damned trip was one giant mistake.

  
As it was, she was barely hanging on by a thread, barely treading water.  As it was, she was barely, just barely, staying alive.  


	7. Good Morning, Sunshine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maka is having a rough morning, and her weapon is doing nothing to help the situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, just two weeks after I posted and here's another chapter! Minor miracle, right? I know people have been itching for more, so I pushed myself to get this out, but I'll be refocusing on resbang for a bit after this, so the next chapter will take a little longer, most likely. 
> 
> Thanks again to my forever betas rebornfromash and mamodork, and for this chapter, marshofsleep also has my gratitude. Laura nudged me in a different direction than I was initially planning to go, and Marsh inspired the reappearance of our favorite stylist, so they should share in the praise (or the blame as the case may be!)

When Maka awoke the next morning, it was to her weapon's soft snores in her ear, his limbs tangled with hers, her head resting on his arm. She briefly reassured herself that she was still wearing pajamas, because she had had  _dreams,_ before attempting to slip out of his arms to see to her morning routine.

So much for keeping to opposite sides of the bed.

Trouble was, his arms were fairly firm around her, and she wasn't ready to wake him, not just yet. She needed time to collect herself first.

She was tempted, so tempted, to stay where she was for awhile. Her head was throbbing, she felt ridiculously sluggish, and, after how they had ended their roller coaster of a day last night, it was nice just to feel close to him, to feel how content his soul was so near to her own. But no. They had another long day ahead and she needed to get up. With the clock on the nightstand showing 10, they'd already slept in far too long.

Letting out a small sigh, she carefully slid herself down. Soul grunted at that and tightened his grip on her waist, so she gently lifted his arm enough to wriggle out of his grasp, and replaced his wayward limb on to a pillow. When he rolled over with a murmured expletive, she knew the ploy had failed, but at least she was out of bed. Time to shower and dress so she could face the day. No. So she could face  _him_.

Last night was behind them now, and she fully intended to keep it that way.

Thirty minutes later, after basking in the hot water, and then, slipping into a white ruffled blouse and black pencil skirt combo, Maka felt, if not refreshed, at least a little less like road kill. Making her way back to the bedroom, she perched herself at the edge of the bed cautiously and peered down at her weapon.

He looked so  _peaceful_ lying there, hair mussed, a line of drool running down his chin, his breathing deep and even, that she was loathe to wake him. The urge to stroke his wild, pallid locks was strong, so she gave in for an instant, reaching out a hand to run it across his forehead and through his hair affectionately once, twice, enjoying the feel of his hair, thick beneath her fingers, the heat of his skin, the soft hum of approval that escaped his lips.

"Maka," he rasped out.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty. Time to get up."

"Noooooo," he groaned. "Dunwanna."

"Well, too bad," she said with a light poke to his ribs. "We're going to  _your_ family luncheon in an hour, so  _you_  need to shower and get dressed."

"Not goin'," he grunted, rolling over to turn his back to her.

"Yes-you  _are,_ " Maka replied as she began to poke at his back. "We're  _here_ for your brother, so we're  _going_ to that luncheon for your brother if I have to haul you into the bathtub myself."

Soul rolled over to face her, practically leering, eyebrows raised. "That an offer?"

She went scarlet, last night flooding her mind, and slapped her hand on his bare chest. "Oh just get  _up_  already!"

"No," he slitted his eyes and glared at her, pulling the covers up to his chin. "I'm tired and it's stupid. So fuck it. You wanna go, go, but I'm stayin' right here."

"Noooo,  _you_  are going to go shower and get dressed because you told your brother you would go, so you're damned well gonna go."

"Like hell I am," he growled but got out of bed anyway, trudging sleepily to the bathroom and slamming the door behind him, the sounds of him relieving himself a few seconds later unmistakable.

Well, at least he was up. Maka went to grab some heels for herself from the wardrobe and was surprised to hear the bathroom door open so soon, to turn around and see her sleepy eyed, scowling weapon trudge over and practically dive back into bed.

"Soul  _Alastair_ Evans," she wielded the newly discovered name with the precision of a death weapon, "you get your lazy ass back in that bathroom and shower or so help me-"

She had begun stalking his way. Soul rolled over again, his back to her, and cut her off with a grunt of "don't need a shower."

Death he was being a child. Why did it feel like she was dealing with the fourteen year old version of her partner rather than her nineteen year old death scythe?

"Yes," she said, voice deceptively calm. "You do."

She walked over to yank the cover from him, though he caught the move in time to hang onto the sheet for dear life.

"You smell," she said as she tugged at the sheet to take that, too.

"Like body odor." Another yank, but he was still holding tight.

"Booze." A third yank.

"And ass warmed over," she half growled the last, tickling the one foot that was sticking out and causing him to yelp as she yanked and he let go in his surprise.

She tossed her prize to the floor haphazardly and grinned down at him in triumph as he scowled up at her. Even with that scowl, with his disheveled hair and rumpled sleep pants, Maka thought he looked adorable, like an angry puppy. Annoying, but adorable.

She could feel an odd mix of anger and belligerence along with deep unhappiness welling up from him, and she didn't  _get it,_ but he needed to damn well get over it because they didn't have time for this and she was in no mood to put up with this level of childish bullshit, her head still pounding and her body aching with what had to be her first hangover.

"Fuck off," Soul growled as he sat up, still glaring. "If I wanna smell like ass, I'll smell like ass. You don't wanna smell me? Get the fuck out."

Her clenched fist belied the calm in her voice as she answered. " _Nobody_ wants to smell you, and you've got 45 minutes to make yourself fit for human company.  _Get out of bed now_ , or I  _will_ force you out, and I promise it won't be pretty."

"Why the fuck do you even  _care_?" He launched out of bed and stood a mere foot from her, sharp teeth bared. "They're  _my_ family. I wanna blow 'em off, I'll fucking blow 'em off."

"Get dressed," the meister snapped, ignoring her weapon's little tirade. Why did she  _care_? Stupid bloody question. "Now."

"Whatever." He snapped back at her, moving to the wardrobe to grab clothes before stalking past her to the bathroom. He paused and spun around in the doorway.

"Oh, and you might want to see to that," he flung a hand carelessly in her direction. " _Sweetie-"_

"See to what?" She furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"-cause I don't think hickies are  _fit_ for human company _."_ With that, a sneer, and a raised middle finger, Soul spun back around and slammed the door, Maka left gaping and rubbing her neck self consciously.

Finally hearing the shower run, the meister sighed in relief before padding over to the wardrobe. She had yet to fix her hair, and so, had yet to properly glance in a mirror.

Seeing her own reflection, her eyes went wide. Holy Death in Shibusen her neck-was black and blue, splotched on both sides with marks that very much resembled the size and shape of her weapon's mouth. Curse him. Curse him right to hell. Her hair was beginning to dry, curling slightly at the ends, but definitely not sufficient to cover the marks on her skin. She looked like she'd been mauled by a damned animal. Stupid,  _Stupid_  Soul.

"Asshole," she muttered to her own reflection even as she flushed scarlet with the memory of just how  _good_  it had felt to receive those marks. She bit her lip in frustration. "Asshole," she repeated, letting her anger simmer as she moved to her purse to retrieve her compact. Anger was familiar. Anger was safe. Maka couldn't afford to feel the other things hiding beneath her weapon's marks on her tender flesh, wouldn't allow herself to feel them, not now. No, anger was better.

Opening the compact, she took a tentative swipe over the first mark with her powder, but it did little to cover the bruising beneath. She nearly groaned. No, shit, no-this would require far more than the light powder she reserved for special occasions. Shit shit shit-they didn't have time for a run to the store.

She'd have to improvise.

Hadn't Liz made her buy that turtle neck sweater because it could be cool in the Spring here? She was pretty sure? Stomping back over to the wardrobe, Maka rifled through, panic rising in her stomach as she failed to find what she so desperately sought.

She was about to screech in frustration when she reached the last garment-a dark green cashmere turtleneck.

"Oh thank  _DEATH_ ," she breathed her relief as Soul stalked back in, hair damp and tousled in a way that was so enticing it made her blush to think of. Then he paused next to her and she got a better look at him.

Was he wearing...? Oh  _hell no_.

"You are  _not_ wearing  _that_  to your family luncheon," Maka said acidly as she eyed him from her place next to the wardrobe, where he was currently rifling through their shoe collection.

"Yes, I am," he countered, not even bothering to face her.

"No, you're  _not._  Ripped jeans and an obscene Pearl Jam t-shirt isn't dress casual, Soul, and Aria mentioned-"

"Fuck Aria," he cut her off with a growl as he finally found the shoes he'd been looking for, a pair of worn black Chuck Taylors.

"Soul," her tone was a warning of impending violence. She couldn't recall the last time she had chopped him, but she was close to doing so now.

"You know what? No!" he whirled on her, fists clenched, "Your fucking way or the fucking highway as usual, right? Well not this time,  _sweetheart_. I'll dress how I please or not go at all, your choice."

Maka just sighed, deflating slightly. Her head was pounding, she felt sick and hurt and spent and now-now she had to deal with her fully grown weapon acting like a petulant child. She'd had enough.

"You know what, Soul? Fine." Her voice was flat. "You want to dress like a punk ass, dress like a punk ass. It's on your head since we really don't have time for this. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to change and finish my hair so we can get out of here."

Not sparing him a backwards glance, Maka walked over to the bathroom and shut and locked the door behind her, collapsing back against it and sucking in deep, calming breaths for a few moments before removing her blouse to pull the sweater on. She caught sight of the change in the mirror and thanked Liz in her mind for her foresight because it covered her neck completely, the marks vanishing beneath the soft knit like they had never been there. The fact that she felt instantly  _too warm_  since it was not a cool day was only a minor nuisance, and she decided to mitigate the situation by fixing her hair up into a smart bun, two strands left out to frame her face.

Well, she'd looked worse.

Applying light makeup, she judged herself presentable and, with another deep, calming breath because they didn't have time for more fighting, she made her way out of the bathroom.

The meister found her scythe half sprawled on the bed, headphones in his ears, eyes shut, one foot bouncing to a rhythm she couldn't hear and probably wouldn't get if she could. She strolled up and loomed over him for a bare instant-his shoes were on now, those same worn Chuck Taylors, and he'd spiked his hair up high, a thin black headband perched on top to keep it from his eyes. He looked perfect for a day with their friends, but absolutely ridiculous for an afternoon with his family.

The idiot.

She poked a finger lightly at his shoulder, causing him to crack open an eye and peer up at her lazily.

"Time to go. It's," she glanced at the alarm. "11:20. We need to get out of here."

He must have heard her through the music, or perhaps read her lips, because he half shrugged, opening his eyes fully and sitting. "Yeah, whatever, let's go," he said, getting up off the bed and moving past her, not bothering to remove his earbuds. She grabbed her purse and followed. Maybe Soul wasn't being  _nice_ about it, maybe he still looked better suited to attend a concert than a luncheon, but at least he was listening.

Still, a day among virtual strangers with a cranky, underdressed pseudo husband was hardly her idea of fun. Then again, this trip wasn't about her having  _fun_. She was here for him-she had to keep that thought firmly in her head. Even if he was being an ass this morning. Even if she didn't dare let her mind wander to last night. Even if she just wanted to go home.

When they went out the door, Soul made straight for his bike parked in the drive, dug his riding jacket and helmet out of one saddlebag, and swung his leg over easily, throwing his meister an expectant look as she paused in the middle of driveway.

"Thought you were in a hurry," he said with something like amusement. "Sooner you get on, sooner we can get out of here."

She shook her head. Why should she get on to go up the driveway?

"I'll walk," Maka said with a huff she couldn't quite stifle, scoffing at the very idea.

"To the country club? Shyeah good luck with that. It's only several miles."

"But I thought-I mean-isn't it at the main house?" she stammered.

"Nooooo that's the rehearsal dinner." Maka could almost hear the smirk in his voice, though he still looked as bored as ever.

"I can't-" she glanced down at her skirt. "In this?" She was aghast. Soul's cousins already looked down on her. How would it look of they arrived like  _that_. "Isn't there-I mean, aren't the others taking a car?"

"Nope," he said with an exaggerated popping of the p. "Wes texted me while you were in the bathroom and I told him to go on ahead. It's just you, me, and Etta." This time he did smirk. She wanted to punch his smug little face. "Don't see the big deal anyway," he shrugged. "You ride in a skirt all the time."

" _Not_  in a pencil skirt, and  _not_  to some couture family affair," she said unhappily. Maka looked between the bike and her skirt again before sudden inspiration struck. "I know! We'll fly."

It was her scythe's turn to scoff.

"Fuck no," he said, voice flat.

"No, fuck yes," she smiled sweetly. "We can fly close and walk the rest of the way. No one will be the wiser."

"Because they wouldn't dream of looking up," he rolled his eyes.

"I'm serious," she held out her hand expectantly. A little flight was just what they needed. Maybe then they could get past this-this-whatever this was and be normal again. Plus, she really didn't want to arrive on the bike. "Transform." Maka's tone held the command of a meister to her weapon, and she could see the struggle visible on her scythe's face for an instant, but then he shook his head.

"No," he repeated. "We're riding Etta. Now get on."

"Soul," the command remained. "Your meister is telling you to transform."

"Noooo, we aren't on a mission, Maka, and this isn't school. My  _fake wife_ is telling me to transform and fly, and I'm telling her fuck no. Or do you want to have to explain how we got there to all and sundry when we don't show up on the bike? I'm sure my whole family would  _loooove_  to hear how you had my shaft between your thighs."

Maka couldn't help it, she flushed from head to toe at the implications, at his stupid smug look. She wanted to chop him so, so badly that her hand twitched at her side.

But she was here for him. Clearly something was eating him-she'd need to pry it out of him eventually and hoped he wasn't still regretting last night-but they were already running late, so it would have to wait.

The meister took a deep breath, bit down on her lip to stifle her anger, and stalked up to the bike, digging for her own helmet and riding jacket and donning them before getting on. She pointedly held the seat behind her to avoid having to touch her weapon.

"You're  _such_  an asshole," she sighed.

Soul flashed a sharp grin back her way. "I aim to please," he sounded amused, then finally donned his helmet and revved the bike to take off down the driveway.

He drove purposefully fast, took sharp turns at speed to make it harder to hang on from behind, particularly while keeping one hand on her hiked up skirt to remain something like decent. During one quick maneuver to avoid a pothole, her resolve not to touch him wavered with her jolt of shock and she threw her arms around him. She felt the smugness in his soul as he gunned the bike, forcing her to press closer, to hold on tighter, not giving her time to shift her grip.

Death he was a jerk.

Still, it felt nice to be pressed against him like this; it felt far too much like home. Maka closed her eyes and let herself get lost in him for awhile, in his warmth, in the comfortable feeling of his soul close to hers, before noticing the bike come to a stop.

She opened her eyes. Blinked. Let go. They were in front of a larger brick building, columned and elegant. A middle aged man in a pristine red uniform was eyeing them skeptically as Soul dismounted and stowed his helmet, opting to keep the leather. Maka stowed her own gear self consciously, smoothing down her skewed skit as her weapon explained to the clearly flustered valet attendant that he would be leaving Etta in front, and if anyone so much as looked at her funny, they'd have  _him_  to deal with, punctuating the threat with a flash of his canines. Both ignored the car that had pulled up behind them.

"But Mister... Mister..." The attendant looked appalled, at Soul, at the bike, at the entire situation. "We can't have such a  _thing_  parked so-"

"Evans," Soul provided, cutting him off.

"I don't-" the attendant was shaking his head.

"Soul Evans. It's my name. We done here?"

Upon hearing the name, connecting it with the situation at hand, the poor man looked like he might faint. "Yes of-of course, Mr. Evans," he stammered out.

"Good," Soul said briskly, wheeling Etta over to rest in front of the building on some grass and just behind a smallish tree. Maka was reminded of his behavior at the airport and was irritated enough with him this morning to scoff at his rudeness. For all he seemed to want to dissociate himself from his family, her weapon sure played that card now when it was convenient.

As Soul made sure Etta was safe and secure, the unhappy little man in red finally attended to the car that had arrived just after them. Maka heard footsteps and tittering somewhere to her right and whirled around to face whatever new silliness the morning had in store.

Of  _course_  the limo held the Evans sisters. Soul's cousins were whispering back and forth, wearing light, bright sundresses that suited their elegant figures well. When Lucretia seemed to notice she had been noticed herself, she breezed up to stop a mere few feet from the meister, Minerva in tow.

"Ah, good morning Mara. That is a most  _interesting_  vehicle the two of you arrived on. Though clearly it suits you well." The woman gave Maka an up and down look punctuated with a sniff, her smile fake and sweet. She eyed the meister's outfit with a dismissive sweep of the eyes, her smile turning nasty. "And that sweater is certainly a bold choice in this heat. Very  _daring_  of you."

Before she could even think to respond to that bit of rudeness, her embarrassment palpable, Maka heard steps behind her, and suddenly there was a hand on her elbow. "It's Maka, actually," she heard her weapon say, and as the meister turned her head to look at him, she saw him flash his teeth in a menacing smile. He was pulled to his full height for once and practically looming. Minerva took a nervous step back and Lucretia looked like she was going to be sick. Maka had to remind herself that this was probably the first time he had spoken to them in almost a decade.

"I guess a lot hasn't changed," he added with a glance between his cousins, who appeared to have been struck dumb by the mere force of his presence.

"I suppose we should be going in," Maka forced out brightly, needing to break the sudden tension. "We'll see the two of you inside." And with that, she clasped her weapon's hand on her elbow and steered them both to the door. She could feel something near homicidal in his soul that was  _not_  directed at her this time, and knew it was best to simply flee the scene before it got ugly.

The meister could feel real  _fear_  from her weapon's cousins as they retreated and, petty as they were, she couldn't find it in her to be satisfied.

When they paused in the large grand entry of the building they had entered, Soul said flatly, "They've been bothering you." It wasn't a question. "You shoulda said something."

Maka shrugged. "They're silly and shallow and not worth the effort, Soul," she answered briskly because she had no wish to discuss the two who really were beneath notice, and who really had just been frightened into speechlessness. "Now let's hurry up-we're already late."

Beginning to move again, she tugged him in a random direction, but he stopped and she looked up, annoyance clear on her face.

"It's that way," he thumbed over his shoulder casually and she deflated and sighed "oh," letting him take the lead to steer them through the building because for however long he had been away, they were still clearly on his turf now.

A twist and a turn later, they arrived in a light, bright, elegant room with double doors thrown wide. There were smartly dressed people standing or scattered at various shiny round tables, a string quartet was playing in the corner, some sort of light, floaty music, and the waitstaff in pristine white was milling among the partygoers, offering silver trays of fancy little one bite hors d'oeuvres. Soul took up a piece of sashimi from one tray they passed and popped it into his mouth wordlessly, ignoring the pointed stares of his relatives as he pulled them to an empty table in a corner of the room to sit down. Maka followed suit and took another glance around as her scythe worked on devouring the several more tiny food items he had collected on their path through the room.

She felt trepidation from his soul, and wondered if it was the crowd or the people in it.

Then, a few moments later, Maka felt someone approach before she saw him and, she couldn't help it, relief washed through her. Things were strained with her weapon in ways she didn't want to begin to understand, but Soul needed support here, that much was clear.  _He_  might actually be able to give it.

She looked up and the smile she offered, half fondness, half relief, was genuine.

"Ah, little brother," Wes said brightly as he walked up and sat down. "Glad I found you. Long night?" He raised an amused eyebrow.

"You know it was," Soul grunted around his mini chateaubriand.

"Mmm," his brother hummed. "I know you had some long unresolved business from back home to handle. I hope that went well."

Unresolved what now? Maka was confused, but Soul went as red as his eyes and growled.

"Damnit Wes, now is  _not_  the time."

She furrowed her brow, turned to her weapon. "You had business?" She was confused and a little hurt that he might be keeping something from her.

" _No_. Just," he snapped and stood up quickly, shoving his hands in his pockets in anger. "I'm gonna get some food," he began to stalk off, but Wes called after.

"Oh, and Soul?"

The scythe whirled around, scowling at his elder brother. " _What_?" His voice was acid.

"Gran wants to see you, so you might want to, oh I don't know, change? I have a spare pair of pants and a dress shirt in the trunk of my car that ought to work," he offered airily, "unless, of course, you'd prefer to wait until Mom finds you and sicks her stylist on you?"

Maka watched her weapon swallow and go pale. "Ok. Yeah, I'll take your keys and, yeah, thanks," he stammered out before grabbing the keys from his brother's extended hand and walking off, more slowly this time.

"Any time, little brother," the older man muttered to himself with a smile that was as much amusement as exasperation. "Any time."

Maka remained silent, still baffled, though ultimately glad her partner had seen fit to listen to  _someone_  about his outfit, but it was only an instant before Wes turned his eyes to her and she realized with a little jolt that this was the first time they had ever been alone together.

"So, Maka," he smiled at her politely. "I trust you are well this morning?"

"Um, yeah, I'm-I'm fine. I hope you're okay, and Aria."

"Of course," he waved her statement away with a small gesture. "Aria was engrossed in discussing our honeymoon plans with Genevieve. I'm sure she'll be around soon to greet you. She's quite fond of you, you know," his own smile was fond, soft, and she smiled back.

"Oh, I like her too, very much," Maka replied. "And you two seem so happy together! I know Soul is really glad to see it. He-I think he's really missed you, even if he's not very good at saying it."

Wes nodded. "I know. Words have never been his strong suit, but it's nice to hear, anyway," he leaned closer, though he was a seat away from her. "And you, Maka. How are you faring through all of this? I imagine it can't be an easy adjustment. And I realize that the-situation-might be less than ideal."

"Mmmm," she hummed. "It's-really okay," she lied, because how could she tell the truth, that she was in love with his brother and all this pretence was damned near soul shattering? "Soul and I, we-well-I wanted to be here for him, you know?"

"I know," Wes nodded again. "I can tell how much you care about him. It makes me feel better about not being there-I know he's in good hands." His fond smile was back and Maka flushed brightly, but nodded back. "Anyway," he rose suddenly. "I need to make the rounds, but Gran is eager to meet you as well. She's over in the other corner of the room. I can walk you if you'd like."

"Um," she felt nervousness well up in her stomach and realized, for the first time, how  _warm_  she was. She remembered why, felt the sweater snug against her neck, and had to stifle another flush and a frown. "Actually, I think I'd rather wait for Soul, but thanks," she replied with a forced smile.

"Can I at least get you something?"

"No, I'm fine, really, but thanks for offering," she tried to smile reassuringly.

"Well, if you change your mind, I'll be around," he said, and paused for a moment, looking like he wanted to say more. Instead, he gave her a little wave and then left, weaving through the crowd with a poise and skill she could only envy. Soul's big brother really was something else.

Tired of sitting alone after a few minutes, Maka finally decided to get up and seek something to drink. Her stomach felt too queasy for food-some combination of nerves and hangover had it doing flip flops-but she was parched. Moving through the crowd and gathering far less looks than she had the first time with Soul at her side, she managed to flag down a server to order an iced tea (iced anything sounded good, she was sweltering,) then looked around the room for someone, anyone, familiar. She finally spotted one of Soul's three male cousins nearby, but as they were exceptionally low on her list of acceptable company, she moved her eyes away to keep looking. Unfortunately, he must have noticed her as well, because he began walking her way, sporting an oily smile.

"Ah, Maka, right? I see your dear husband abandoned you to the wolves. He never did like these things."

Maka ignored the comment, instead greeting him cautiously. "Good afternoon, Mr. DiFranco. I hope you are well?" She could do formal, she could do polite. She was the daughter of a Death Scythe, the creator of a Death Scythe, and this was little different from a hundred diplomatic functions she'd attended, right? No different from dealing with any meister or weapon or witch she didn't care for.

"Please, call me Luca. And I'm  _much better_ now that you're here. My cousin is a fool to let you out of his sight-I'd never make the same mistake." His smile widened and Maka could feel something predatory from his soul she didn't at all care for, something challenging. "Oh, and you look good in that sweater. It suits you."

Maka saw red, her flush one of anger rather than mortification. "I was cold. It's much warmer in Death City," she offered flatly. "I wonder, though-why wouldn't you leave your wife alone? Is it because you wouldn't trust her? Because I'd say, then, that getting married is probably a bad idea."

"Oh no, not at all," he stepped closer, too close. "It's more that I wouldn't trust other men not to try to move in on something so precious, so beautiful." He moved a hand to take up one of the strands of her hair framing her face, but Maka was much faster, intercepting his hand and stepping back in one fluid motion. His hand was tight in her grip and she squeezed, causing him to make a muffled yelp of pain, before releasing him.

"Ah, but you assume that such a woman isn't more than capable of fending off any attackers," her tone was casual, conversational. "Have you ever seen a kishin egg, Mr. DiFranco? Because I can assure you, they are far more threatening than  _any_  would-be suitor-and as Soul is well acquainted with how we manage to  _exterminate those_  for a living, he has no reason to fear."

The man before her had taken a step back himself, looking slightly pale.

"Do you know where kishin eggs come from?" the meister continued, her tone still light. "Because I do. Predators. Murderers. Rapists," she put emphasis on the last. "People who covet, who want things that don't belong to them, who want power over others. It's  _those_  people who Soul and I must eventually hunt, without qualm or mercy. I  _do_  hope never again to have to hunt down someone we know. It's very unpleasant, but unfortunately necessary."

Luca had taken another step back, and then, nodded. "Yes, well, it was nice to see you. I'll, um, see you around. Ma-Mrs. Evans," he stammered out before backpedaling and disappearing among the crowd. Maka smiled to herself, satisfied.

She heard a light chuckle at her shoulder and turned to see Aria right behind her, shaking her head. "Nice," was all she said. "That one has been begging for a set down since the day I met him, probably since the day he was born."

"You… saw that?" Maka asked cautiously.

"Enough of it, anyway. Never did much care for those DiFranco boys. Remind me never to piss you off, eh? But enough about the resident jerk-how are you? Or, more importantly, how was your night?" The wide grin and knowing gleam in her eye and in her soul set Maka immediately on edge because there was absolutely nothing to know.

"It was fine. We went straight to bed when we got home." She realized her mistake the moment she made it, but correcting it would only make it worse. And in the end, she supposed, it was best if others thought they had gone home to tear each others' clothes off when all they'd actually done is ignore each other pointedly. People were  _supposed_  to think that.

"Oh, I'm sure you did," Aria laughed. "Boy looks like he hasn't slept. Didn't even bother to get dressed."

Maka sighed at that. "He can be-stubborn-when he's cranky."

"Mmm, I can see that. And yet, I'll bet you have ways of getting him to cooperate. Nice sweater, by the way." Maka was pretty sure that grin should be illegal it was so loaded.

"I was cold," she replied automatically.

"Uh huh. And we were late to breakfast yesterday because I lost my keys. Oh," her eyes strayed up. "Hello again, Genevieve."

Moving her eyes again to where Aria's had strayed, Maka smiled in relief as she caught sight of the tall, elegant Maid of Honor. "Ah, Maka, lovely to see you again. You look stunning, as usual! I simply adore the sweater!"

Maka almost groaned and had the sudden urge to find her weapon and deck him. She was already sweating beneath the tight knit of the garment-uncomfortable from the heat and the too knowing glances.

"Uh, thanks. I was-cold. It's much warmer back home." She wondered just how many times she would feel the need to justify her clothing choice that day.

"Yes, I do hear that things are rather- heated-in Death City," Genevieve responded, and Shinigami damn the amused glance she shared with the bride. Damn them, damn her partner, damn this whole ridiculous situation.

"So, Aria love, I just got a call from Em. She says she's managed to salvage my dress and will bring everything by tomorrow morning-she wants to make a final check for myself and Maka."

As the two other women began to chat about the dresses, Maka silently scanned the room, wondering when her missing scythe would see fit to show himself again. She was about to resort to her soul perception when she felt a warm hand on her shoulder.

"Don't. Move," his voice spoke in her ear.

"What?" She whirled on him, surprised and annoyed in equal measure. Aria and Geneveive stopped talking at the outburst, and Maka reddened as she glared at her partner.

"Just-don't move," he implored, hunching suddenly in front of her. Was he-was he  _hiding_?

"Aria, darling!" She heard an affected voice behind her, heard the smack of air kisses.

"Jean Luc," Aria replied evenly.

"And Genevieve! So lovely to see you again!" he offered airily, followed by more air kisses.

"And is that..." Maka turned around because it was rude to keep her back to them, "of course! Miss Maka!" He approached her to offer the same air kisses, hands on her shoulders, looking an odd mix of elegant and ridiculous in knit gray slacks and a purple shirt tied at the neck with a green cravat. A  _cravat_ of all things. She worked hard not to cringe.

After he was through, the stylist looked her up and down and sniffed, much as Soul's cousin had before him. "That sweater is an-interesting choice. Fortunately, I should have several things to you by tomorrow. Never fear! I'll take good care of you, my love! You are quite the canvas to work with. I daresay you could end up being my best work yet! But of course, I have a more difficult task for the time being. I thought I spied that husband of yours over-" he finally glanced past her shoulder just as Soul was apparently trying to slink off. "Ah! Mr. Evans! So glad I could catch you!"

Maka was shocked at just how predatory a smile the little man wore, but that quickly faded when Soul rudely continued to walk as if he hadn't heard him. Maka growled his name, causing the death weapon to turn around with a sullen glare her way followed by something like sheer terror as the stylist stalked up to him and reached a hand up to actually touch his stiff white spikes. Soul flinched back and glared down at the man.

"Tsk, tsk Mr. Evans. Your mother was right-you  _do_ need more work than your wife! Well. I'll get on the clothes later, but for the moment, we should deal with that  _hair."_

Maka heard a half snort from her side and glanced over to see Aria, hand over her mouth. Genevieve was biting her lip before she mouthed 'sorry.'

"Don't need clothes, and definitely don't need you to touch-"

"Actually, um," Maka wasn't sure it was polite to call the stylist by his first name, and hadn't heard his last name, so she stammered on. "Soul promised to introduce me to his grandmother-she'd like to see us-so I'm afraid his hair will have to wait. If you'll excuse us?" She walked up to take her weapon's arm and steer him away. As they passed Genevieve and Aria, both women smiled their goodbyes as the scythe meister led her beleaguered scythe determinedly towards the other side of the room. As he sighed in something like relief at her side, she thought that he really hadn't earned this little rescue, not after what an ass he'd been all morning-but he was still her weapon, and she was still here for him. Plus, she figured,  _nobody_  really deserved whatever horrors the little stylist had in mind-and, though she would never admit it in a thousand years to him or anyone, she actually sort of liked his bad high school hair. It reminded her of his younger self, of their younger selves, and that was almost enough to make her smile through this whole ridiculous business. Almost.

"Thanks," he said after a moment, surprising her by pulling them to a stop. "But, uh, if you really want us to see Gran, she's that way." He gestured vaguely to the opposite side of the room and Maka felt suddenly very foolish since Wes had already told her where she'd need to go.

"Oh, yeah, thanks." She looked at him for a moment, noticed the expensive black slacks and dark blue button up he'd 'borrowed' from Wes fit perfectly in spite of his slightly broader frame, and had to stifle a smile. "You okay?" she asked instead.

"'M fine," he said testily.

"Uh huh."

"You wanna meet Gran or not?" Soul snapped, causing his meister to sigh at just how short lived his thankfulness had been.

"Of course. Lead the way, oh my gallant prince," she answered with forced lightness, because she was damned tired of humoring his foul mood, her own temperature rising in the stifling heat of her sweater.

"Whatever," he said with a shrug as he began to steer them towards the other end of the room.

Their walk was too slow, too methodical as they weaved through the crowd, and she could feel the new trepidation, the sheer guilt, rolling off her weapon in sickening waves, causing her own stomach to drop to her toes.

Apparently, as the pinnacle of an entirely terrible morning, she was about to meet the mysterious entity known only as Gran.


	8. Misery Loves Company

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maka endures a long, hot day with a touchy weapon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, after a good long wait, here, for your viewing pleasure, is Chapter 8. It's the longest chapter yet by a good bit, over twice the length of chapter 1. I figure you all deserve it for waiting so long. Thanks to rebornfromash, ilarual, and fabulousanima for the eyes, sound advice, and listening to me whine. A lot.

Walking across the room on the arm of her weapon, Maka began feeling more and more self conscious at how out of place her sweater was among silk blouses and breezy dresses, so when they finally approached a table in the far corner where Wes Evans sat speaking animatedly with an elderly woman, she felt an odd mix of trepidation and relief.

The woman had the same mahogany eyes as Sophia and Wes, with grey hair that was worn in a practical cut above the shoulder. Like Maka, she wore a sweater, but not a turtleneck, and though her gaze was turned fondly on her grandson, there was a piercing quality that bespoke both frankness and intelligence.

So this must be Gran.

When they reached the table, the woman's eyes moved up to light on Maka, and she seemed to take her in for a moment before shifting her gaze towards her partner.

"Soul," she said, and how she managed to sound both elated and disappointed in one breath, Maka would never understand. Her smile, however, was wide and genuine. "So good of you to stop in to see your Gran before there's nothing left to see. And I see you've even deigned to bring me my new granddaughter, thank you."

Soul managed to hold his face together in something like polite neutrality as Maka glanced his way, but his wavelength was flooded with guilt and warmth, an odd, almost nauseating mix.

"Gran," he managed to choke out. "It's-really good to see you."

"Likewise, child, likewise. Although." She gave him a quick, clinical head to toe scan. "I suppose that no longer applies. You've clearly  _grown_. I daresay you're even taller than your brother, now."

As if to emphasize his presence, Wes let out a small cough, and the woman at the table turned back to him. "That impatient?" she said, shaking her head in mock disapproval, but her smile belied the action. "Well, shoo then." She waved a hand. "Go find your fiancé. I'm surprised you've lasted this long without her, seeing as you're practically joined at the hip."

Wes laughed as he stood. "Which is why we're getting married-to continue to puzzle the masses with how much we actually enjoy one other's company."

This got a slight chuckle from his grandmother, and a more vigorous wave as she quipped, "Go on then, you scoundrel." It seemed playful, and Maka thought-maybe-that this woman was one reason why the Evans boys were like neither of their parents.

As Wes left with a light wave, the woman glanced up at Maka for a moment, then turned her eyes back to her grandson, who seemed to be contemplating his own hands with unwarranted attention.

"Soul, dear, perhaps you would be so kind as to introduce us?" the woman said after a moment.

"Uh yeah, of course. Sorry." He moved his eyes to his grandmother. "I'm, uh, Gran-" he began, but as his grandmother coughed lightly in seeming reminder, he amended "-Mariana DiFranco, this is Maka Al-Evans, my uh wife."

"So pleased to finally meet you, Maka." She stood and held out a hand, and as the meister took it, she noted the other woman's grip was firm. "And of course you can call me Gran. So lovely to be adding another woman to this clan of boys."

"I-thank you, Gran. I'm glad to finally meet you, too." It was the truth-to meet someone Soul seemed actually fond of was a bright spot in an otherwise ridiculous day.

"Well, don't be a stranger." Her eyes were on Soul again. "It's been almost ten years, I'd say you at least owe your Gran a hug, wouldn't you?" The last bit was directed at Maka, and the woman's expression of fond mischief reminded the meister very much of her eldest grandson. She heard more than saw Soul swallow, before he strode the few steps to envelop the petite woman in a hug. He towered over his grandmother even more than he towered over most people, and though his meister could not see his face, Maka felt the guilt, fondness, relief, and intense affection thrumming through his soul.

"My," the meister heard Mariana's muffled voice from behind her weapon. "You really are a  _giant_  now." She stepped back, and her smile was wide. "Now sit," Gran said as she did so herself. Maka followed suit, moving around to sit on her left while Soul purposefully placed himself in the opposite seat. Whatever his feelings about his grandmother, he still seemed to want as little to do with his so-called wife as possible.

"So I trust your journey here went well?" Soul's grandmother began, looking between them.

Soul nodded. "Yeah, was fine. How was the flight from Lisbon-I think that's where Wes said you were."

"Ponta Delgada, actually, looking into some old family holdings-and  _long_. But really, Soul dear, I live enough of my own life. I want to know how  _you're_  doing."

The weapon shrugged. "Fine, I guess. Busy." The fact that he was uncomfortable talking about himself was both obvious and expected-he always had been, though Maka had thought it might be better with his grandmother. Perhaps it was simply the initial discomfort, the distance bred of time and guilt.

"He's doing really well, actually!" She decided to elaborate for him, voice bright. Perhaps once the conversation picked up he'd be more willing to speak openly. It was often how he operated. "We're about to graduate at the top of our class, and Soul is one of the youngest death scythes ever, not to mention the last!"

"Ah, yes, I'd read about that-congratulations are in order for both of you, I'd say. It _is_  quite the accomplishment." Mariana seemed genuinely pleased as she looked to her grandson.

"It's mostly Maka," Soul responded, voice quiet.

"No, of course that's not true," the Meister said with a slight frown. She was feeling warm again, and the last thing she wanted was to interrupt her weapon's time with his grandmother, but she had to set the record straight.  _Someone_ needed to let his family know what he'd accomplished, how amazing he was, and clearly that someone was going to have to be her.

Mariana looked her way to nod approvingly, then, pausing, frowned slightly. "Have you eaten dear? Would you like a drink? You look a bit flushed."

In truth, Maka was overheating in the damned sweater she'd resorted to wearing, but she couldn't say that. "I haven't eaten, no, but-"

"Soul, love, be a gentleman and get your wife something to eat. Go on, then."

"I-" He looked reluctant as he glanced between them. Maka didn't know if the trepidation was because he'd hardly had a chance to say hello and was already being sent off as errand boy, or because he was worried about leaving them alone, but before his meister could insist she was fine, thank you, he finished with, "Yeah, alright. I'll be back." If he was a little sullen, walking away slightly hunched with his hands shoved into his pockets, Maka was pretty sure only she would notice the difference. Though on second thought, as she saw Gran frown after his retreating form, perhaps she was wrong.

Before she could further consider that possibility, her thoughts were interrupted by the elder woman's voice. "So, Wes tells me you two only got married recently?" Mariana looked at her keenly, and though her face was welcoming, Maka couldn't help feeling a bit like a bug caught under glass.

"Um, yeah, it was a-sort of spur of the moment thing," she said, trying to keep the nervous edge from her voice. She'd never been a good liar. "I'm sorry we didn't think to have family, but it was just-"

"Don't be embarrassed, dear. There's certainly no need to apologize. I may be in my twilight years, but I _do_  remember what it's like to be young and in love." She looked almost wistful for a moment before continuing. "Honestly, I've never been all that concerned with social niceties myself. I suppose my youngest grandson gets that from me." She smiled again and, oh yes, Wes was definitely her grandson.

Maka smiled back. "No, Soul's never been one for them either, though he can be a gentleman when it's called for."

"Of course," Mariana replied, her smile never wavering. "His mother would have allowed for nothing less. The child had an etiquette tutor up until the very day he left for Death City, though the poor man never was quite able to get his lessons to stick."

Her own smile was thin as she nodded. "Yes, well, Soul has also never been one to much enjoy lessons."

Gran raised her eyebrows. "Ah, so I see that graduating at the top of your class truly was your doing."

"Well, the part that requires high marks, yes," the meister acknowledged, "but Soul is certainly capable enough when he has a mind to be-even if I  _do_  sometimes wish he'd take our grades a bit more seriously." Maka let out a breath at that, though it was a comparatively minor irritant. "Still, he's a great partner, and it's because of that, of how brave and loyal, not to mention perceptive and talented he is, that we've been able to accomplish so much. But I think you already know that."

Gran nodded thoughtfully. "Of course, and to be frank, I'm far more interested in knowing that my grandchildren are well than in worrying over how they manage the finer details of their lives." She leaned forward expectantly as she continued. "No, what I'm _actually_  concerned with is how my grandson is doing-how he's  _really_  doing-and I suspect you aren't one to mince words when asked so directly. So tell me, is Soul  _happy_?"

"I-" It was a fair question, really it was, but it caught Maka completely off guard.  _Was_  her weapon happy? She thought he was. They had a pretty good life, and she had taken for granted that he must be happy with that-but really,  _really_ , was he? "I think so? We have a lot of friends, and I think he likes what we do-"

"And he has you," Gran added.

"And he has-me," Maka agreed reluctantly, lowering her head slightly in an attempt to hide her blush at just how embarrassingly, painfully  _untrue_ that was.

"He just seems." Mariana waved a frustrated hand. "Off. And I was hoping you might have some insight. From everything Wes told me, he's grown up considerably in the time he was away, as one would expect, yet the man I just met was very little different from the boy I once knew. If anything, he was far more guarded than he's ever been with me, and I must admit it concerns me."

Maka didn't say anything, too stunned by such blunt honesty about her partner from a woman she'd only just met. His grandmother wasn't wrong-Soul was off-but it wasn't like his meister could share that  _she_  was the problem, that he was angry and repulsed that they'd crossed lines they should never,  _never_  have crossed last night.

"This is just a lot for him to digest," she said slowly, attempting to stick to some version of the truth. She had a very strong sense that this woman would scent bullshit like a bloodhound scented a hare. "He's been gone a long time. It's-a lot to handle at once. You seem to know him well-well enough to know he's not exactly forthcoming about most things. He's never shared with me everything about his childhood, but I know he-" she bit her lip, wondering if she should say so much, but she had a feeling this was not news for the other woman. "He wasn't always happy. And coming back here wasn't easy for him."

Mariana nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose that does make sense," she said after a short pause, a small head shake. "And you two-you're happy? Wes also tells me he's never seen his brother so alive, that he's like a different person around his wife." The idea that she had yet to see that was unspoken, hanging in the air between them.

"Wes likes to talk a lot, doesn't he?" Maka said with a pointed smile.

To her shock, Mariana laughed. "Oh yes, the boy is a downright gossip, always has been. But he's also incredibly perceptive. He was definitely right about you. Just talking to you-no wonder my grandson fell in love with you. I suspect you are exactly what he needs." Soul's grandmother was still smiling, but again, Maka felt the sharp scrutiny along with the high praise, and flushed deeply.

"Uh, thanks," the meister managed. "He-Soul is really great, you know? He deserves to be happy." And even if his grandmother was dead wrong and she wasn't the one who could make that happen, she meant every word.

"Who says I'm not?" She heard a deep, familiar voice at her shoulder as a plate of food appeared on the table, along with a long stemmed glass of something pink and bubbly.

"Don't interrupt, it's rude," Maka snapped, embarrassed, as she threw an elbow behind her, catching her only half-unsuspecting weapon in the stomach. He grunted before shuffling to sit on the other side of his grandmother. For her part, Maka eyed the plate filled with some of her favorite things-deviled eggs, cheese, and delicate little pastries among them-and took a sip of her drink. Of  _course_  it was pink lemonade. Even now, he'd gone out of his way to choose things she'd like.

She raised her eyes, meaning to thank him, when Mariana cleared her throat.

"Soul, dear." Maka watched his eyes snap away from where he'd clearly been staring in his meister's direction back to his grandmother. "Now that your wife is settled for the moment, perhaps you wouldn't mind taking me for a little turn outside? I hope you don't mind losing your husband again for a few minutes," she turned her gaze to Maka, "but I'm afraid these old limbs aren't what they used to be, and I could use a bit of air."

"It's not problem at all!" the meister said sincerely.

"Of course, Gran," Soul put in, face neutral as he stood again and held out an arm for his grandmother to take with a flourish that could almost be called gentlemanly. It was somehow both strange and right from him, and Maka marveled anew at the series of contradictions that called himself her weapon.

"We'll be back, dear." Mariana smiled down at her. "Enjoy the meal."

Maka smiled back and took a bite of egg, ignoring the hurt that clawed at her stomach as her psuedo-husband didn't even glance back in her direction. Well, maybe some time alone with his grandmother would help; she supposed at this point it couldn't  _hurt_. Really, though, he was taking this entire thing too far. This had all been his idea,  _his_ , this whole stupid pretending to be married thing. And now he was upset the act had gone too far? Wasn't he the one who'd insisted they play the part last night while she-she was the one suffering for it in this dreadful sweater, completely overheating? She flushed for the umpteenth time at the thought of the marks on her skin, just beneath the fabric, the marks  _he_  had given her.

What an  _asshole_.

Taking an angry bite of an utterly delicious slice of gourmet cheese, she mentally amended that. Okay, maybe not an asshole, but certainly a fickle baby, a stupid fickle overgrown child who she adored because she herself was a stupid _stupid_ overgrown idiot.

"Now what did that poor hunk of cheese ever do to you?" Maka heard a teasing voice intone from nearby. She quickly turned her head, because it was familiar but only _just,_ so she couldn't quite place it, to see Aria's cousin Eric standing nearby. He closed the distance and gestured to a chair two away from hers. "Would you mind if I joined you for a few minutes?"

"Um, no, no of course not, I was just eating. But feel free." He was just as handsome as she remembered from the night before, with dark skin, neatly trimmed hair, and wide, expressive brown eyes currently crinkled into a light smile as he set down his own plate of food and drink before pulling out a chair to sit.

"Anyway, I just came over to apologize for last night."

"A-pologize?" Maka was taken aback. Why would he need to apologize, and to  _her_  of all people? They barely knew each other.

"Yeah. Apologize. I was out of line, and I'm sorry. I didn't realize you were married, much less to Wes' kid brother." His face was suddenly serious.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Maka insisted with a frown. "Talking and dancing aren't crimes."

"Still-" he started to protest.

"Still nothing," she was adamant. "It was a club. People talk and people dance. Don't worry about it-it was nice to make a new friend." She smiled warmly because he seemed like a genuinely good guy, and because it would be nice to have at least one normal conversation today with someone who wasn't scrutinizing her or angry with her or  _whatever_.

"Thanks." He smiled. "I enjoyed talking to you, too."

The meister flushed a bit at that, gathering her wits in the face of such an unexpected admission.

"Say-are you okay?" Eric said into her pause as she took a drink of her lemonade. "You look warm in that sw-"

"I like it warm," she cut him off. "I like it  _hot_. Death Child, remember?"

His eyebrows shot up again. "Death... Child?"

Suppressing a heavy sigh, she simply nodded-it sometimes surprised her how little the rest of the world really knew about Death City and its citizens. "I'm from Death City. It's hot there."

"Oh, oh yeah!" He recovered her offered lifeline with ease. "It really is. Played there against the Reapers before-I was shocked they could even maintain a rink in that heat, it was god awful."

Maka shrugged. "You get used to it." Which was true, though it was also true that you learned to dress for the occasion, which included not wearing close knit turtleneck sweaters in the heat.

He paused, looking at her in seeming thought for a moment, before suggesting, "I'm a little warm too, honestly. Would you like to get some air?"

Tired of sitting and curious about where her partner and his grandmother had disappeared to, she nodded. "That would be great, actually."

They both rose at that, and Eric led them to a side set of French doors that went out to a well manicured garden. They moved in relative silence, walking side by side past several other party guests who had also discovered the wonders of the garden, and offering the occasional comment about how nice the greenery was, before Maka decided that they should probably talk about something other than the beauty of the flowers.

"So you play hockey, right? What's that like?" she asked. She'd never met a hockey player before.

He chuckled. "Cold and violent."

"I can definitely relate to the latter part, anyway," she said with a laugh. "I don't know much about hockey, to be honest, but it looks like fun, all that zipping around the rink on skates."

This was greeted with another chuckle. "Or standing in a small space. I'm the goalie-we don't do much zipping."

"Oh!" She nodded. "Still, defense is the most important part of any good team! How do the positions work, anyway?" She was being polite, since hockey didn't quite interest her enough to want to know the finer logistics of the game, but she figured there were worse ways to pass the time.

They chatted idly for a while as they made their way through the side garden, with Eric explaining the game and Maka putting in the occasional question or comment. There was no sign of Soul or his grandmother, and eventually, they turned their steps back to the room to stand near one of the tables.

""Thanks for the walk," she said, one hand on the back of a chair. "I think I needed the air."

"Not a problem, it was my pleasure, honestly. Though I do have a question."

"Oh?" Maka asked, genuinely curious.

"Yup. Do you know what the goalie say to his teammate?"

His wide grin should have been fair warning, but she didn't know him well, so she said, very seriously, "I don't know. What-did the goalie say?"

Eric chuckled. ""I need to get the puck out of here!"

She couldn't help it, she laughed, shaking her head.

"Wow, that's really terrible," she finally said as she was able to stave off her amusement long enough to reply at all.

To her surprise, he gave her a long, level look. "You really are something," he said after a moment, before offering a genuine smile. "Your husband's a lucky man-I hope he knows that."

"Yeah, I know," a voice said tersely, sounding like he knew nothing of the sort. Maka looked to her side to spot a scowling Soul.

"Speak of the devil," Eric said with a grin, but Soul ignored him.

"Come on, _sweetheart,_  we should be going-" her weapon began, and Maka was about to chide him for being rude and ask where Mariana had gone when he added, "Shit, I'll be back just-stay," before hurrying the other way.

Maka was still blinking after him in confusion when she heard another somewhat familiar voice call out, "Oh Mr. Evans, wait uuuuup!"

Well, that explained that, she supposed, as the energetic little stylist came breezing past after her retreating partner.

Eric cleared his throat. "Anyway," he said. "I wasn't completely joking before, I really do need to leave. I'm supposed to do a signing in an hour across the state, and I need to get there. But it was nice talking to you."

"You too, Eric. I'll see you soon, I'm sure."

He nodded and smiled again, seemed about to say more when an audible click of heels approached and Maka saw Sophia Evans coming over from the same direction the stylist had appeared, looking prim and perfect in a cream colored dress. "Ah, Maka darling, there you are! I'd been hoping to catch you for a moment." She paused as she noticed that the meister had company. "And Eric, was it?" Her tone never faltered, but Maka could sense the sliver of annoyance in her soul. "Pleasure to see you again."

"Sophia," he nodded. "I was just going, but it seems Maka will be in good hands. Goodbye, ladies," and with that he was off, and Maka sat gaping after him for a moment, trying to keep her head from spinning at the rapid change of company. She realized quickly that she was now, for the first time, left completely alone with Soul's mother, and turned her attention back to the other woman, who gestured to the table where Maka had been standing.

"Shall we sit? I must confess, I've been running about so much I could use a bit of a break."

"Oh, yes, I'd be happy to," Maka replied, seating herself and watching as Sophia did the same in the chair next to her. As the meister had come to expect, the woman was perfectly poised as she looked at her with a polite smile.

"So I trust you're enjoying our little soiree? I apologize that my son seems a less than adequate companion this afternoon. I must admit, he does seem rather more out of sorts than usual today."

Maka blinked at the elder woman for a moment because that was a lot of presumption for someone who hadn't seen her son in a decade, who hardly knew him anymore, but she recovered quickly enough. "You have nothing to apologize for." She wore a polite smile of her own. "Soul has many people to catch up with, and I'm perfectly content on my own, but I thank you for the concern."

Sophia nodded absently, eyes fixed in the direction her son had disappeared earlier, before looking back to Maka. "Are you-quite sure you're alright?" The meister was surprised by the sincere concern in the other woman's tone, but nodded nonetheless.

"I'm well, of course," she offered with forced cheer. "It's been a pleasure to meet more of Soul's family, and the food is delicious."

"Excellent," Soul's mother nodded. "I want you to feel like a part of this family, you and Soul both. I want him to be comfortable coming home, to feel like this is still home for him. I realize he-" she shook her head. "Well, that's not really important. I'm just glad the two of you are here now." That she spoke in earnest was clear, her eyes imploring.

"Me too," Maka replied, and if it wasn't quite the truth, it was true enough that she was glad to finally meet her weapon's family.

"Good. I'm so happy to hear you say it! And speaking of being a part of our family, I heard you met my mother. I do hope she was gentle."

"Gentle?" Maka raised both eyebrows.

"Well, yes," Sophia said thoughtfully. "My mother is brilliant and perceptive, but quick to judge, and just as quick to speak her mind. Soul is a good deal like her in some ways, actually." The thoughtful look vanished quickly, to be replaced with the well worn, polite smile. "But while Mother has been known to be-less than welcoming to newcomers in the past, shall we say, I was sure she would simply adore you." This time the smile widened into something more genuine, and Maka nodded acknowledgment, her blush coming upon her unbidden.

"Thanks," she said quietly.

Sophia waved off her gratitude, assuring her of the sincerity of her words, before her face grew eerily thoughtful again. "But I must confess, I did have an ulterior motive in approaching you. I hope you don't mind, but I have a request for you."

"A… request?"

The woman nodded, not a single hair straying from her subtly upswept chestnut locks. "You see, the rehearsal dinner is tomorrow and-well, I'm aware that this is exceptionally short notice, but we'll all be displaying our talents as a part of the evening's entertainment. Alastair and I will be performing  _Caro Nome_ , Wes and Aria intend to play an original composition together, and I was hoping that you and Soul might be willing to provide a small demonstration. Nothing terribly fancy," she added quickly. "I understand there's not much time to prepare-but if you could perhaps show him off as a weapon and explain how you work together? I fear most people don't precisely understand just what it is the two of you do, and I should very much like for them to see how talented you both are, if you would be so kind as to show them." There was a nervousness, a hesitancy in the other woman that the meister hadn't sensed before. She was anxious-this was  _important_  to her.

Maka nodded slowly, because Sophia was right, people didn't understand-how  _could_  they? She was fairly certain this was as much for Sophia herself to understand as anything else, and Soul deserved for his family to see what he could do. "Of course we'd be happy to!" The enthusiasm and smile the scythe meister exhibited were both genuine; for the first time since she'd met them, Maka felt like she was on even footing in a conversation with one of Soul's family members. "We do plenty of demonstrations at school, so it's really no problem. I just need to know how much space we'll have so I can coordinate which moves to show."

"I can have the entire stage cleared if it will help," Sophia offered.

"That would be great! If we have the space, we can do the same demonstration we sometimes do for the lower EAT classes," Maka began, excited. "We usually start with a strong resonance-"

"Resonance?" Sophia looked nothing short of puzzled, and in her enthusiasm, Maka had completely forgotten that Soul's mother had likely never even seen her son in weapon form-how could she possibly be aware of soul resonance? She sometimes forgot that Soul himself had known absolutely nothing about such things early on in their partnership, that these were completely foreign concepts to most people who existed outside the confines of Death City.

"Yes, soul resonance." Maka nodded. "It's-fundamental to how we work together. Though actually," she amended, "maybe we should start with basic transformation and contact material since this will be more like demonstrating for beginning NOT students, and then move on to resonance-"

"But what is this resonance, precisely?" Soul's mother pushed.

How could Maka explain? She had to remember that this would all be foreign and new for someone like Sophia Evans. "Well you see, in order to wield a human weapon like Soul, a meister like myself must first make sure our souls are in synch because not every meister and weapon will be compatible. Actually, compatibility can be a real issue for some, but-" Soul's mother was wrinkling her brow in something like confusion, and Maka realized she was probably overthinking this. "Well, that's not really the point. Anyway, the initial aligning of souls is the first step towards achieving soul resonance, in which the meister and weapon merge souls to harness their power, combining their wavelengths in a continuous feedback loop to generate an enormous amount of energy. In a concentrated resonance, the results are visual and stunning to those who've never witnessed it."

"So you and my son-combine your souls?" The wrinkle had not smoothed.

"Yes, exactly."

Sophia shook her head. "How do you even know where to find your soul? I must say, I've never so much as felt a hint of my own-and to then share yourself so  _closely._  It must be very strange." Maka felt hesitant curiosity from Soul's mother.

"It is, at first, but you get used to it in time."

"Still, that must be why you two are so close." The woman said, seemingly almost to herself.

"Weapons and meisters do tend to form strong bonds," Maka agreed.

"So after you show us this-resonance-will your demonstration end?"

"We could end it there," she agreed. "But I'd rather put on a better show, really highlight our talents like you asked. I was thinking we could show everyone Soul's Witchhunt blade, along with his piano blade, and then we could do a brief flight demonstration. Do you think that would suffice?"

"I-" The Evans matriarch looked completely out of her element. "That sounds like it would be more than sufficient, yes. Though will you truly-I mean, I didn't realize you could fly."

"Oh, yes! It's something Soul and I learned after he became a deathscythe, but-well-" she shook her head. It could take days to convey all the mechanics of how they achieved flight to someone who knew so little, and really, it was unimportant. "I guess you'll see, but we'll definitely demonstrate flying. Hopefully, that'll be a good show of what Soul's been up to."

"I-think it just might be, yes," Sophia replied, nodding slowly. "I'm sure we'll all enjoy seeing you two in action, thank you." And while there was still a lot of confusion in the other woman's soul, Maka could also sense something like pride in her wavelength, a feeling that echoed in her own soul as she reflected on just how far she and Soul had come together.

"I look forward to it!" She beamed.

The meister was about to ask if Sophia had any other questions when she felt a hand on her forearm and turned her head to see that her weapon had returned, back in his original clothes, looking nothing short of bedraggled. His hair had gone from high, ridiculous spikes to a wet mess plastered to his forehead. Maka couldn't help it, she laughed.

"Oh my  _Death_ , Soul, what  _happened_? You look like a wet poodle."

"We need to go. Now," he said, voice pitched low.

Maka shook her head. "Don't be rude, I'm talking to your mom. Whatever it is can-"

"Hi mom, love you, but I need to steal my wife." He raised his eyes to his mother. "Big night ahead-hope you don't mind."

"But Soul, dear, I-"

"Maka's never really spent time here. Gonna show her around, have a little alone time, thanks for understating. See you tomorrow!" His speech was hurried, his eyes darting around as he hauled Maka up by the arm, ignoring her protests.

"Just. Go." He gritted out.

She shook her head, looking to Soul's mom. "It was lovely talking, Sophia, but I guess we're-going."

"Yes, of course, goodbye dear." The woman was blinking up at them, clearly confused by her son's rashness. Maka had no time to ponder further as Soul practically dragged her across the room.

"What the hell is going on?" she hissed, tearing her arm from his grasp.

"Just, I don't want him to-" he snapped back, fear in his voice.

"Oh Mr. Evans! We aren't through, if you would please-" she heard the little stylist's voice call to their backs and it all suddenly clicked into place. She laughed again as he grabbed her arm once more to pull her out the garden room doors and through the halls of the country club. They arrived at the bike in an instant, helmets and jackets were quickly donned, and then they were off, the thwarted stylist left puzzling after them on the country club porch.

For a time, they just drove. Rude as her weapon had just been, at least there was method to that last bit of madness, and he had, for the moment, forgotten to be annoyed with her as his meister pressed herself against his back.

Of course it couldn't last.

Eventually they slowed, and Maka looked around, not recognizing the unfamiliar urban surroundings.

"Wait, where are we?" She blinked as he parked the bike in the midst of an oversized strip mall, smack in front of a large movie theater. "I thought we were going home?"

"We are." He shrugged. "But I needed to get Gran off my back about us going to dinner with the DiFrancos, so I told her I had a special evening planned with my wife. I don't like lying to my Gran."

She hopped off the bike, careful to keep her skirt down, and took off her helmet to stow, before turning back to him, eyebrows high. "And this is your idea of special, now, is it?"

"Yep." He grinned wolfishly. "Time spent with Cap is  _always_  special."

"Weren't you and Star going to go see that movie after marathoning the wide world of Marvel?"

Soul shrugged. "Still can, but this happened. So. Figured even if it sucks, it'll still be the highlight of this whole steaming turd of a day." He stowed his jacket and helmet and looked passively after her. "You comin'?"

"Do I have a choice?" she asked archly.

"Not really," he returned back over his shoulder.

"Then lead the way." She had really hoped they'd be going home. It wasn't that she minded superhero movies-she just really wanted to get back to the guest house, get out of this ridiculous sweater, and try to drown the existence of the last 48 hours in ice cream and fatty take out.

Well, she would manage. Maka was a big girl, and it wasn't as though she minded spending time with her partner. Maybe he'd even cheer up a little and they could actually enjoy their evening.

They walked into the theater and obtained tickets, drinks, and snacks, before settling in. While they generally shared a drink when they went to the movies, this time Soul insisted on his own-his own drink, his own popcorn, his own candy. He'd even sat his smorgasbord of junk pointedly on the seat next to him so that she had to sit on the other side of his food rather than with him.

Okay, so maybe that earlier thought about enjoying the evening was a pipe dream.  _Death_  was his pissy routine getting old. She needed to talk to him about things, clear the air so they could return to something like normal, but he seemed intent on giving her as little opportunity to do that as possible-they'd arrived at the theater just in time to get snacks and get in for the previews, leaving no time for chatter, idle or otherwise.

Deciding that previews weren't prohibition enough to prevent her from trying to soothe his clearly raw feelings, Maka turned her head his way.

"Hey, Soul?" she said, loudly enough to be heard over the previews, but only just.

"Yeah, what?" he said, flicking his eyes her way for a moment then back to the screen.

"I think we should talk about-"

"It's started, Maka. That means we're supposed to shut up-or were you not paying attention to the helpful advice of the dancing hot dog?"

"It's the previews, Soul. No one  _cares_."

"I care," he insisted, flicking his eyes her way for another instant. "Now quiet-I want to hear all about how a group of over the hill spies are going to save the world with nothing but a tube of Bengay and their wits." He punctuated his dismissal with a loud slurp of his soda.

"Yeah, whatever," she said with a sigh, resigning herself to waiting until the movie was done. Responding to concern with avoidance and snark-classic Soul Eater. Maka supposed it would keep for another two hours, even if she was getting damned tired of his attitude.

Now instead of clearing the air as she'd hoped, the meister sat a chair away and sucked down her own oversized soda, stewing in her discontent, still too hot and beyond irritated at the childish bullshit of her weapon.

As Maka watched the movie in silence, she thought that the rampant distrust, the demise of the order that had been S.H.I.E.L.D. unfolding on the screen before her seemed somehow apropos. Slurping down the last gulp of her economy sized soda, the telltale sound of air through the straw announcing her plight, she sighed heavily and made to get up-she was too damned hot not to have a drink for the remaining half of the movie-when a large soda appeared in front of her face, held in her weapon's hand that he had extended across the divide between them.

She sat back down and turned her face to his in question, but his eyes were still glued to the screen, arm out to keep the drink in front of her.

"Take it, I'm done," he grunted. She blinked at him, then snatched up the mostly full drink, only a little disappointed that it was Mountain Dew instead of Pepsi, before turning her own eyes back to the screen.

"Thanks," she ventured.

"Yeah, whatever," he replied, voice flat. "Just don't suck it all down in five minutes like a fucking camel."

And then he was done talking, and Maka was left with the reminder that even when he was acting like a complete dick, her partner still put her first. She sighed yet again and let the sound and light of the movie wash over her, painfully aware of his own simmering discontent a few feet away as they each sat isolated in their own cacophony of feelings.

An hour later, the movie was over and they were shuffling back to the bike. The prospect of returning to the guest house loomed near, and Maka was happy that she would finally be able to get out of the incubator she'd spent the day baking in and hopefully have enough time to think through what she needed to say to mend this rift between her and her partner. Wrapping her arms around him only to feel him stiffen was awkward, unnatural even, but at least they'd be home soon.

She might have known even that was too much to ask.

Another twenty minutes later, and they were weaving through the heart of New Haven before finally parking in a spot on the street between two cars nothing else could have fit into. There were several storefronts, at least one with a long line, and again, Maka raised her eyebrows.

"What now?" she asked, trying to keep her voice neutral.

"Gonna get some pizza. Real stuff, not that shit that passes for decent in Death City."

"I thought you told your Gran you had a special evening planned."

"This pizza _is_ special, trust me," Soul offered with a shrug. Done stowing his helmet, he walked towards the entrance of an old building with a white sign hanging above the entrance marking it as Frank Pepe Pizzeria Napoletana, not even glancing back to make sure she followed. Hustling after, Maka entered behind him into a space full of brick and worn wood, packed to the rafters with humanity and filled with an aroma of baked cheesy goodness that was little short of divine.

It took them nearly forty minutes to get a table in the crowded little dive. Figuring maybe, just maybe, they could finally talk about what was eating at her weapon, Maka looked up at him as they stood in the packed entryway to wait for their table, where he was notably pressed closely to the wall to avoid actually touching her.

"So, ready to talk about what's bothering you?" she asked quietly.

"Absolutely," he nodded slightly, and she kept her eyes on his face, expectant. "Forty minutes is way too damned long to wait for a table," he finished.

"That's not what I meant and you know it, Soul," she huffed, irritated that they were so close that she couldn't even cross her arms over her chest properly.

"I have no idea what you're on about," he drawled. Stonewalling-typical. She should have expected it.

Not wanting to start a scene amidst the gathered throng, the meister grumbled, "Of course you don't," before going quiet. If Soul wasn't willing to talk about it yet, then they just wouldn't  _talk_  at all until he was.

After forty minutes of festering in near silence, they were finally seated, and Soul ignored her questions about the rather sparse menu to order a large tomato and mozzarella pie. Normally, she would have vocally protested his presumption, but it didn't seem worth it just then, and cheese was fine by her anyway; she figured that her uncharacteristic silence in this instance was protest enough. For thirty more minutes, they sat across from one another at a small, worn wooden table, exchanging no words and looking anywhere but at each other while waiting for their food. They may as well have been alone. Finally, when a hot, gooey platter of deliciousness arrived and she took her first bite, the meister decided that while her weapon was a stubborn, emotionally constipated ass, he was right about one thing-the pizza really  _was_  amazing. Screw Cap, this was clearly the highlight of an otherwise terrible day.

Both of them ate greedily, nearly fighting over the last piece as their hands collided above it. Soul pulled his back like he'd been stung, and she did the same.

"Take it," Maka offered shortly.

He shrugged, grabbed it, and shoved it unceremoniously into his mouth without so much as a thank you, then he paid and they left.

This time, she held onto the handles in back for the first time she could remember, not wanting to feel the volatile cocktail within his soul that her touch would stir, needing space herself, too damned heartsick to do this dance for much longer.

Didn't he realize this was hard for her, too?

It was a bit of a drive back to his parents' house, and the meister relished the cooling air against her face and hands, tried to sink herself into its rushing current rather than fall further into the pit of despair swirling forcefully within her weapon. After some time, and yet, far too soon, they were pulling into the guest house driveway, the twinkling stars overhead looking on distantly, offering no comfort. Maka shucked her jacket into the saddle bag for the final time that day, along with her helmet, and made her way inside, eager to bathe and change and collect herself enough to attempt to cross the yawning chasm between them without the dynamite hidden within exploding in her face. She was weary to the soul and down to her last shred of patience for this day, for everything, for  _him_.

Letting out a long yawn as they got inside, she stretched her arms out above her head for a minute before moving towards the stairs.

"Where you goin'?" Soul grunted from behind her, and she shrugged.

"For a bath. It's been a long day, and I could use one."

"Yeah, cause a few hours out with your own weapon is totally fucking draining, I forgot."

She didn't turn around, still paused near the stairs. "That, and everything that came before it. It's been a rough day."

"Oh, I don't know," his voice was suddenly, suspiciously casual. "Seemed like you and Eric were having a grand ol' time together at the luncheon. Sorry dinner with me couldn't compare-guess I'm just not as good at faking it as you are." The venom in his words and in his soul belied his too-conversational tone.

And that was it, the last straw.

Maka Albarn had had enough-far  _far_  more than enough. Screw collecting herself, screw trying to soothe his feelings, screw  _him_. She whirled on her disgruntled weapon, hands clenched into tight fists.

"What is  _wrong_  with you?" she snapped. "You've been a complete asshole all day, and I'm getting really damned tired of it."

"Well, I'm getting really damned tired of all the bullshit," he growled. She supposed that was the nearest to a real answer she'd gotten from him so far, but it still told her absolutely nothing. She shook her head at his complete cluelessness, stalking up the stairs because she needed to be alone, to recover,  _to get out of that damned sweater for Shinigami's sake._  He was tired of the bullshit- _he_  was tired?

Stupid, self-involved  _bastard_.

Unable to let it go, overheated, seething, and completely done, she whirled again at the top of the stairs and yelled down. "You  _asked_  for this, Soul. I came here for  _you_. This is for  _you_ , not me." She spun back around towards the bedroom, but heard his footsteps on the stairs tromping after her, loud and angry, his soul a mess of emotion tempered white hot with rage.

"This was a fucking mistake," he said tightly from the doorway. "A huge fucking mistake."

She let out a deep sigh as she dug for her pajamas in the wardrobe, turning around empty handed to face him across the room. "Look, I know you're angry about last night." She took a calming breath as she started to move closer. "But you said we should act the part and we did, and-" She shook her head, at a loss for words as a flush took hold unbidden, the memory close and hot.

"Oh, you acted the part alright," he said bitterly. "You acted it like a fucking pro. Should win an Oscar you were so convincing. Hell, maybe you should apply at Chupa Cabras when we get home."

Maka's eyes went wide as she shrieked incoherently.  _What the hell?_ She'd never wanted to do this, it had been a long, unbearably hot afternoon putting up with his complete bullshit, and now he had the nerve to-to-

" _I did what you asked_ ," the words were low and seething. "And I might add, you were  _very_  convincing yourself, only-" she stepped close, looking up at his angry, hooded gaze with her own. She could feel herself overheating again, her rage stifling beneath the confines of the sweater, so she lifted it over her head to fling it off unceremoniously, leaving her in only a bra and skirt. "Next time you're pretending to make out," she continued, her whole body tense with rage as she saw him swallow nervously. " _Lay off the teeth, you utter fucking ass!"_ She practically shrieked the last in his face before spinning on her heel to return to the wardrobe, grabbing up her pajamas.

"What," he said lowly as he walked towards her, and she moved aside as he angrily accosted the wardrobe himself. "Afraid people will realize that sweet, innocent little Maka Albarn ain't so fuckin' innocent?" He didn't even have the guts to face her as he spat his poison, and she shrieked again, stalking to the bed to grab up a pillow and hurl it at him, hard, followed by a blanket.

"Get out," she seethed. "Now."

He held up the pajama pants he'd grabbed from the wardrobe for emphasis before grabbing the blanket and pillow roughly. "Already on my way," he grunted before walking across the room. He spun around at the doorway, growling out, "Goodnight,  _angel_ ," the last word practically spat like a curse, before slamming the door behind him.

Maka heard his retreating footsteps on the stairs and sighed heavily as she changed into her pajamas. It was only eight o'clock, but she was completely exhausted; even a bath seemed like too much effort at this point.

She trudged over to the empty bed, suddenly seeming far too big, and laid down beneath the covers, feeling nothing short of spent, her rage draining, quickly replaced with an overwhelming sense of loss. Why did he have to be so-so- _unreasonabl_ e? She didn't get it, his rage, his hurt, and her own rage and hurt were stifling, overpowering, leaving her practically numb.

Feeling the tears threatening, stinging, she willed them back. She would not cry. Not for this. Not just because he was being such a jerk.  _She would not cry._

Maka didn't cry, but as she drifted off into an uneasy sleep, utterly miserable, she had never felt so alone.


	9. Get Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Soul regrets acting like a complete ass and desperately wants to fix it.

"You can stop brooding like you're eleven again and talk about it any time, you know," Wes said, eyes on the road as he flipped on a blinker.

Soul stifled a sigh. His brother was driving like a ninety-seven year old grandma in spite of the fact he'd chosen to take their father's Lamborghini over his own SUV for Death only knew what reason. Two days ago, he had driven like a fucking maniac to plant one on the fiancé he'd seen five minutes before and would see later that night, but now Gran would have beaten him in a road race easily, and she was well known for driving ten miles under the speed limit at all times.

His scowl deepening, Soul reached out to turn up the ear splittingly awful electric violin Wes had playing on the radio-still better than listening to his brother's well meaning blather. He knew what he was about, and telling Wes wasn't going to erase the last two days, wasn't going to make shit better, wasn't going to make Soul any less of a fuck up.

Reaching across to click off the radio completely not a minute later, Wes glanced at him with a rare frown. "Aria texted me a few minutes ago. Said when she brought you up, Maka looked like she was about to punch something. Or some _one._ Wonder why. Wonder what her loving husband did to elicit such a reaction."

"Cut the crap, Wes," Soul finally snapped. "I'm not her loving _anything_ , and you sure as shit know it."

"But you want to be," was his brother's response as he side-eyed him, and there was no teasing, just a statement of bald fact.

Letting out a sigh at that because he didn't care enough to try to hide it just then, Soul bit out, "Doesn't fucking matter what I want, and she's probably never gonna speak to me again after last night, so just-drop it, will you?"

"After last night?" The raised eyebrow was accusatory.

Of course he wouldn't drop it. He was Wes.

Soul wasn't even sure he actually wanted him to at this point-he had no answers, no way to turn back the clock, no way to fix what he'd clearly broken, and he was just desperate enough that advice from Wes was starting to seem like a straw to grasp at the very least. After spending half the night and all of the morning trying to decide what to do, how to spackle over the hole he'd blown wide last night to no good end, he was more than willing to take any lifeline that appeared.

"I-I fucked up, okay?" He stared at his hands because looking at his brother just wasn't an option. "I was being a selfish asshole and I said some shit I shouldn't have-and fuck-I just fucked up. Why do you even _care_?"

"You really have to ask?" The incredulity in his brother's tone elicited another sigh. The silence between them stretched as Wes left him to fill it, uncharacteristically quiet. Normally, Soul would have appreciated the silence, would have dropped the subject like the flaming bag of shit it was, but he didn't know how to fix this and he'd been trapped in his head for too long already.

So, also uncharacteristically, Soul broke the silence.

"I fucked up," he repeated.

"How?"

Appreciating that his brother's gaze remained firmly on the road, he tried to collect his thoughts. He'd been thinking about this since he stormed downstairs last night like an angry toddler, thinking about it during his fitful attempt at sleep, thinking about it as he finally gave up trying to rest at the ass crack of dawn and penned out a brief note as he inhaled a bowl of cereal, thinking about it as he cornered his brother offering his services for any last minute wedding needs, thinking about it as they drove wherever it was Wes was going.

He had only been able to reach one conclusion:

He'd fucked up.

Like a hurt, spoiled child who couldn't see past his own selfishness, he'd taken out his frustrations on the last person who deserved them.

So he'd gotten his signals crossed. So he'd been drunk and deluded himself into thinking that she'd been into it, that she'd wanted him like he wanted her. So he'd been utterly stunned when one moment they'd been kissing each other fiercely, his entire being on fire for her, only to be pushed away the next, rejected, ignored.

So it had only been an act for her, part of the idiot show, while for him it had been achingly real.

Still, Maka had only done what he'd asked of her, cared enough for him to do as he'd asked of her.

Was it her fault that for a short time he was convinced that it was real for her, too?

Was it her fault that finding out it wasn't had nearly torn his soul asunder?

Was it her fault that he had soared too high on hope and _her_ , wax wings that had doomed him to crash and burn?

It had only to taken him a day to get over himself and see things clearly, to stop being a hurt little dumbfuck and recognize the bigger picture.

To blame her for playing along in spite of her feelings was petty and absurd. _He_ was petty and absurd, had acted like a complete shit while drowning in self-pity, and now Soul had only himself to blame that she probably never wanted to speak to him again. After what he'd said to her last night, he'd be damn lucky if she didn't pack her bags and dissolve their partnership the moment she woke up.

He checked his phone again to again find no message from her and sighed. Before Wes had shaken him from the delusion, he had hoped she wasn't awake yet. But no, she was Maka, she was definitely awake.

Letting out a long breath, he tried to decide what to tell Wes.

"I-" He attacked the back of his neck; he had never been good at talking about the shit that really mattered. "Okay, you remember the other night at the club? I was an idiot and I thought she was into it when she wasn't and-shit-when she cut it off I was-fuck, it's stupid, but it hurt. I just-I really thought-and fuck-" he cradled his head in his hands.

"So you fought?" Soul could hear the careful neutrality in his brother's tone.

"Not then, no. Not really. But I was a dick all yesterday, because I clearly can't manage my own shit, and last night she called me out on it and-I said shit." He was fisting his jeans, eyes on his hands now.

"You said?"

"Fuck, I basically-you know, it doesn't even matter. I said shit I knew would hurt her and it did and now she probably hates me. Some fucking weapon I am."

Wes sighed as he pulled over in front of a little coffee shop in a town Soul didn't recognize. He turned to face his younger brother, who was still looking pointedly at his own hands.

"I really doubt she hates you." Soul ventured a glance at him and had to look away from keen mahogany eyes. "She's clearly-and it would seem-rightfully angry with you, but if she hated you, she would be on a plane, not agreeing to run errands with my soon to be wife."

"So she's staying." He tried and failed to keep the relief from his voice.

"I believe we just established that." Wes looked down at his own phone for a moment and rattled off a quick text. "Come on." He shut off the car and unbuckled. "I'll buy you breakfast. This place makes the _best_ coffee."

Soul got out, his earlier bowl of cereal no deterrent to a warm meal. He could use the distraction of eating.

The brothers were seated upon entry, perused menus in silence, and ordered oversized platters along with coffee all with no further conversation. But as the waitress flounced away after heavily flirting with them both as they rattled off orders, Wes shook his head and caught his brother's eye.

"Okay, I'll level with you. If you know you fucked up, you actually have a chance to fix it. Maka seems like a reasonable girl. Tell her the truth, and-"

"Maka- _reasonable_?" Soul balked immediately. "You've never her seen her angry. She's the soul of reason most of the time, sure. When she's pissed though? You'd have an easier time reasoning with the fucking Kishin."

"You know her better than I do-but I can't help but to feel that you may have crossed wires on this. Did she tell you she wasn't interested?"

His scoff this time was audible, coming deep from within his throat. "She didn't have to! She pushed off of me like I was some sort of creep, like she couldn't fucking wait to get aw-"

"And isn't it possible she was just concerned about your mutual state of intoxication?"

"I-" he blinked in shock, shook his head "-no, Maka would have just said that."

"If you say so. Again, you know her best. But even if you're right and she's simply uninterested, that still leaves you needing to clear the air. You owe her an explanation and an apology if you truly wish to mend fences."

His sigh at that was loud and long because it was the conclusion he'd been avoiding coming to all along.

He'd screwed things up, had pried into the chink in her armor with poisoned claws in his hurt, and now he had to make it better; Wes was right, explaining was the best, the _only_ way. Yet, how could he convey why he was so hurt without conveying _everything_? How could he make her understand, make her see, without her seeing all? Because that was the real trouble. She had pushed him away-she didn't share his feelings, and if she knew the truth she would run screaming even faster, wouldn't she?

Or maybe she wouldn't. Maybe he had to lay it all on the line to clear the air. Maybe he had to bare his entire soul to have any chance to salvage their partnership after last night. He had crossed a line, and he was afraid, so damned afraid, that it couldn't be uncrossed.

They had a better chance of getting through his pathetic one-sided feelings for her than what she could only see now as pointless cruelty and betrayal.

Or maybe they could just forget about last night and he could try to make it up to her someway. That would be nice-but he knew a new book and a smile wasn't going to fix this, not when he'd cut so deep. Maka didn't hold grudges exactly, that wasn't her, but when she was truly hurt, getting over it was neither quick nor clean for her.

 _Death_ he'd fucked up.

Wes was looking at him expectantly, but he was no closer to an answer.

"I don't know what to tell her," Soul finally admitted. "If I tell her the truth, it might just make it worse."

The waitress mercifully interrupted then, pouring them both their coffees before bouncing away again. Soul took his cup black, foregoing the mountain of cream and sugar he would normally indulge in. The bitter taste suited his mood, and he let it sit on his tongue, scalding, insufficient penance for his heavy sins.

"I'm not sure what else you can do at this point," Wes said after doctoring his own coffee to his liking, with plenty of cream and maple syrup mixed in. "From what you've said of her, she _will_ need to know why before she can forgive, and she'll know if you're lying. I know words aren't your strong suit, brother, but it's not like you can music your way out of this one. Which reminds me!" He snapped his fingers. "Mom really wants you to play tonight and-"

His epiphany was so sudden it felt like a thunderclap. "You-are a genius!" Soul cut him off, grinning.

Wes merely blinked at him like he had lost his shit and maybe he had, but he'd take the shot in the dark he'd been so desperately floundering for since it was the only one he had. "I realize I'm the brains of the two of us," Wes finally managed, "but what-"

"I'll play," Soul cut him off again. "Tell mom I want to go first, opening act. Got just the thing."

His grin was nearly maniacal, causing the waitress to glance his way nervously as she set down a heaping stack of hot cakes in front of him. He slathered the plate in syrup and took an oversized bite as his brother stared down his own omelet, clearly confused.

"So," Wes finally said, tapping his fork against his plate. "You want to play and-you're happy about it?"

Soul shrugged, chewing because his mouth was too full of hot cake to answer.

"What about your problem with Maka?"

Swallowing, the younger Evans looked to his brother. "I don't _want_ to play, but I need to play for her. I think-'musicing' is the only way out, I guess." Wes looked skeptical, and Soul couldn't help but feel defensive. "Look, I'm shit with words and we both know it, but even though Maka is shit with music, she gets me, and I've always been able to tell her things better playing than I ever could talking."

"So your answer is to play for her."

"My answer is to play for her."

Wes pinched the bridge of his nose and let out his own sigh. "I really think you should just tell her the truth."

"That's what the song's for." He shoveled in another bite.

"If you say so." His shrug spoke volumes about his skepticism over this plan, but that he didn't say more was, perhaps, his own way of being supportive, and Soul appreciated the gesture.

He was about to take another bite when Wes cleared his throat. "I wouldn't," he said casually, eyeing his phone.

Thirty seconds later, they were greeted by the whirlwind that was his meister as she breezed up to their table, wide green eyes blinking down at him in something like fury. She turned a hundred watt smile on Wes.

"Mind if I borrow your brother for a minute?"

"Not at all," he waved an absent hand and Soul quickly found himself hauled up and through the coffee shop doors.

They passed Aria on the way out, and Maka said casually, "I'll just be a minute-meet me outside?"

Aria nodded, said a brief hello to a still confused Soul, and then they were down the sidewalk and standing in the little alley to one side of the building.

"This is your fault, you know," she spat out, hands on hips. He blinked down at her dumbly.

"What?" he finally managed after a moment of enduring her angry glare.

"Aria kept asking questions. She's worried, and I don't want her to be worried about _us_ of all things the day before her wedding, so just-make it look good-"

Before Soul could question further, she backed him against the wall and tugged him down by the hair into a searing kiss. To say he was confused was an understatement, but somehow his hands found her hips as her tongue found the inside of his mouth, sliding against his own tongue greedily. Her lips were just as greedy, insistent, and her soul was on fire, her rage threatening to incinerate them both. It was hard to think straight with her kissing him like that, his head spinning as she pressed herself closer.

He heard footsteps that only added to his confusion, heard a voice call his meister's name, and then small hands were pushing at his chest, robbing him of her heat as Aria stood at the mouth of the alley.

"I'm so sorry, I'll just-" Aria looked surprised for the first time Soul could remember, not that he'd known her long.

He felt pretty stunned himself.

"No, it's fine, we're done here," his meister assured the other woman, moving up to kiss his cheek in a blatant show before hurrying off. "See you later, _sweetie_ ," she said lightly after moving next to Aria. The fire lingering in her soul belied the lightness of her tone.

"Yeah, uh, later," he managed, still reeling.

He thought he might now understand how she had felt that day in the gift shop. His world felt completely tilted on its axis. She had screamed at him the night before and now she was kissing him-like _that_? But no-she probably had been repulsed that day, and he was reeling for different reasons, her touch leaving him both addled and breathless.

And Maka? She was clearly still angry. But she was also playing her part, so did that mean she cared enough about him to maintain the ruse, even angry?

Of course she did. She was Maka and he was stupid and he should have known better than to think his angry words could break her so easily.

He still needed to fix this, but suddenly he thought maybe he actually _could_. He'd take whatever chance he could get.

At least now he had a plan.

Still in a daze, Soul returned to his brother and his pancakes, ignoring Wes's too knowing grin as he contemplated the music that was his only hope.

* * *

The next few hours were a blur. Wes left him alone about Maka once he said he had it handled, but that didn't mean Soul wasn't still stuck as an errand companion. They went to a final fitting for Soul's suit for the rehearsal and tux for the wedding and picked those up, stopped into the house of a friend of Wes's who was heading up the music so Wes could finalize the set list, and finally visited a very exclusive jeweler who dealt largely in original pieces and antiques. While Wes was picking up a gift for his new wife, Soul browsed idly, wondering if Maka would like any of these things. Most were so laden with heavy gems he knew she would balk, but his eyes settled on a simple, vintage strand of pearls that he thought she might not hate.

"You could get her something, you know. Mom would probably be thrilled for you to use the platinum card for a gift for your wife."

"Nah, Maka isn't really into jewelry," he dismissed the thought immediately.

"Ah, but she'll need something to wear to the wedding," Wes said, ending his statement with a thoughtful hum. "Whatever she had planned may not work with her bridesmaid dress. Aside from which, a gift certainly couldn't hurt your cause."

Soul was about to suggest Maka wasn't the type of person whose forgiveness could be bought when his mind clamped onto something else.

"Wait, bridesmaid dress? What the fuck are you even talking about?"

"She didn't tell you?" Wes looked genuinely surprised. "Aria asked her yesterday morning. They picked her a dress at the salon when they went to fit the other bridesmaids."

"Shit," he hissed. "How could you let her?"

"Wasn't really my call." Wes shrugged.

"I just-" he shook his head but didn't say anything else for a moment. He was surprised she'd said yes, even more surprised she hadn't said a damn thing, yet he could well imagine Maka feeling like she couldn't say no. "It's your wedding photos, I guess," Soul finished with a shrug.

"Aria wanted Maka to be a part of this, and I really don't object to my future sister in law being there, so-"

"I've already told you we aren't-"

"Like that, yes, yes." Wes waved a dismissive hand. "Are you going to get her something? The dress is royal blue and white. Seems like those pearls you keep staring at would work."

The pearls would cost many, many months salary for them. They were lovely. Fuck, he'd endured this hell and so had she; his parents could fund something nice for her, even if she hated it. Even if she hated _him_.

"Sure, why not. Couldn't hurt."

"It really couldn't." Wes waved over the attendant and purchased the pearls, having them boxed and wrapped. Soul sighed as he took the bag. Buying his meister outrageously expensive antique pearls on his parents' dime reeked of his desperation. This really had all gone to shit, and he had no one to blame but himself.

"Now can we get home or what?" he snapped as they got in the car.

"Sure, I'm done." Wes started the car, glancing his way with an overly amused smile. "And I'm guessing you need to get ready for the big show."

With another sigh, Soul closed his eyes and let the feeling of movement lull him as they made their way back to the ninth circle of hell.

* * *

Being back in the main music room on his parent's estate dredged up memories that he'd just as soon shove down again. It was pristine, cream and white tile, lush blue velvet curtains, perfect acoustics. There was a large, beautifully crafted grand piano to one side, the same instrument he'd spent countless hours practicing on as a child. To sit there now, he felt small again, insignificant, not good enough by half.

_Sit straighter, your wrists are wrong, stop fidgeting, why must you always play so somberly? Listen to your brother, try to follow his lead._

He opened the fall board and ran his fingers lightly over the keys. Soul wasn't that child anymore. He was a grown man, a death scythe, and he was here to finally show courage, to admit his faults, to let his meister know the truth, to try to make up for the words he hadn't meant. He could conquer this room, conquer his memories, and play the song that had been in his heart for years.

_No, wrong again! You will practice until it's right. This is Debussy not Berg. You are an Evans, time to show it. Why can't you be more like your brother?_

The song of his past took him, the song he had played her when they met. The song that used to be him, that was still a part of who he was. His fingers flew over the keys, faster and faster, reaching a crescendo, cathartic. This was still a part of him, yes, but it wasn't all of him.

It was his past, but he needed to play the song of his present and of his future, needed to make it perfect if he was going to make her see.

Not expecting the clearing throat and footsteps as he finally finished, Soul's neck whipped around to meet the approach of his father.

The man was dressed in a suit as he typically was in his son's memories, looking as stern as ever. "I see you still favor those dark pieces," he said, tone neutral. "Still, there are those who enjoy such things. Your skills remain passable. I've no doubt with some intensive practice and our family influence that Julliard will take you."

Turning back to the piano, Soul choose to play rather than answer for a moment, Moonlight Sonata flowing from his fingertips with ease. He needed to find composure lest he scream years of pain at his father; he didn't want that, only wanted to fix things with Maka and put this all behind him.

"I'm not going to Julliard, I told you," he said evenly as he continued to stroke the keys, letting the notes wash over him, soothe him, calm him.

"Your mother and I allowed all that DWMA foolishness because you needed to learn to control this-anomaly-but I believe we've allowed it long enough."

Soul turned his head to meet his father's cold stare. _Allowed_? Bullshit. Weapons gained emancipation by enrolling at the DWMA. They'd never had a fucking _choice_. " _Anomaly_? I'm a death scythe, dad. Do you understand what that-"

"Music was always in your future," his father cut him off, "that's what we raised you for. Not to be some lackey for the so-called Death God. You and your wife will both-"

"Leave Maka out of this." His voice was deceptively soft.

"She's an Evans now, you saw to that. Music is her legacy as well." His father's own blank facade was flawless.

"She's a Death Meister, the daughter of a Death Meister and the current head Death Scythe. _That's_ our legacy."

"Not yours."

"No." Soul grinned sharply. "I'm _her_ legacy and I'm cool with that." His fingers stopped moving along the keys. "Julliard is _your_ legacy, and I'm not interested."

"And you'd give up your place in this family, your inheritance, to what-" he waved a dismissive hand, his facade cracking "-fight monsters? Absurd. You're _better_ than that."

"No, Dad, I'm better than _this_." He stood suddenly and swept his hands to the sides. "Than all of this. Maka helped make me better than this. I left it all behind years ago-I don't want it."

"You don't know what you want." His father's fists were clenched, voice tight. He seemed about to say more when he turned his head to the sound of Soul's mother walking across the pristine marble to place a hand on her husband's shoulder. She looked as put together as ever in her designer day dress. Her face did not.

"Alastair," she said, voice pleading.

"Sophia." His voice dropped, features going soft. "I know how hard this has been on you. He needs to see reason-"

" _I_ need to see reason? I'm not the one trying to control your life. For seven years you never even tried to-" He shook his head. The sheer presumption that they had a say after so long, after they hadn't even tried to reach out? This- _this_ was why he'd left.

"We thought-we thought that's what you wanted." It was Sophia who spoke. "We thought you'd come to us when you were ready. We _all_ did. We made sure you had the account, had the money you needed." It was her turn to shake her head and Soul had never seen his mother look so pained.

"I never touched it." His anger drained. "I don't need your money. And I won't be going to Julliard."

"You don't have to go to Julliard-"

"Sophia," Alastair's voice was quiet.

"No, Alastair." The plea in her voice, in her eyes, it made Soul feel sick and warm, to see his mother's carefully crafted composure crack. "This is why we haven't seen him in seven years; I won't lose my son for another seven. _Please_."

The sigh was heavy and laden with frustration. Alastair gave a small nod. "You deal with him then, I'm done."

Soul's father left the room then, and Soul was suddenly alone with his mother for the first time since he'd run away.

"Mom, I-" He felt so lost himself. First Maka, and now _this_. He was drowning.

"We just want you to be happy, Soul. We love you-your father too-and we just want-want what's best for you, you understand?"

His mother looked so fragile suddenly and she never looked fragile. It broke him.

"I know, Mom. I do. But the DWMA, being a death scythe, it _is_ what's best for me."

Sophia nodded. "I know," she said softly. "You've grown up so much- _so much-_ -and I may not understand your life now, but I want to. I want you to be a part of this family again, please?"

He swallowed, nodded. "Yeah I'd-I'd like that, too."

Her smile at that was wide and genuine, her composure returning as quickly as it had fled. "Well, then! Your brother said you've agreed to play for the rehearsal dinner tonight, I'm so glad. You must need to practice, yes?"

"I-yeah." He nodded, hand gravitating to the back of his neck out of sheer nervous habit.

"I'll leave you then-so much to do! But I'm really looking forward to it, dear." Her smile didn't waver as she bustled away and out the door, shutting it behind her.

Soul blinked after her, still stunned by the exchange with his parents and not sure how to feel about it. His emotions had been pummeled so thoroughly the past few days he felt absolutely numb, yet he had to pull it together if he was going to fix things with Maka.

Letting out a long breath, he shuffled to sit back at the piano and tried to practice their song.

* * *

When they'd picked up his suit, Soul insisted on a red dress shirt beneath the pinstripes, hoping to remind Maka of their connection, of how far they'd come together, of everything they had accomplished. He felt strange in it, but it was right too, this echo of his soul made flesh.

Glancing in the mirror one last time, he decided he was as ready as he was likely to be. They'd already seen each other at the rehearsal but had little opportunity to talk, and Maka had been abnormally quiet. Now was his chance, to speak from the soul, to speak through his music. Trying to put the turmoil of the day out of his mind-his parents, Maka, _everything_ -Soul walked out of the small tent that was acting as a makeshift green room as he heard his brother introduce him, and strode to the baby grand that had been set up for him to play.

Soul knew that the guests had begun to eat their dinner, but that didn't matter. He wasn't playing for them, he was playing for _her_ , the woman standing stiffly just to one side of the stage.

His gaze swept the crowd then settled on his meister. She was little short of stunning in the dress that they had chosen for her to wear to the wedding, a black and white vintage masterpiece that looked as if it had been made for her. He offered a small smile as he said, "This is for you, Maka," and began to play.

Nothing existed but the piano and the music and her.

He played his soul, his story, their story, bound in her strength, fueled by his love. It was a journey, a crawl from darkness to learn to walk in the light, to learn to walk in _her_ light. It was him but it was also her and how she made him feel. It was _them_. Soul had been writing this song since he met her, and now it would act as his plea. He was sorry. He loved her. He was better for her, because of her. _He loved her._ Please. _Please_.

The song ended on a hopeful note, and he played the last keys softly, spent.

Would she understand? Would she accept his apology, accept his song, accept _him_?

His heart clenched, in fear, in hope. He wanted to run, to hide, terrified of her answer. This was a _mistake_. Would she push him away again, knowing his heart? Would this break them or make them stronger?

He hoped it would make them stronger. He quelled his fear-she was better than him, so much better, better than to hold onto such anger for long. Even if she didn't share his feelings, he hoped they could still move past them, could still be partners as they had been for so long. He could accept that. What he couldn't accept was losing her completely.

His fear lingered still, paralyzing. The applause washed over him like so much static.

That she met him as he left the stage couldn't surprise him. That she looked stunned told him little. Then her face broke out into the most heartbreakingly beautiful smile he had ever seen and his heart _soared_.

"Soul," she breathed, facing him, looking up to meet his gaze. "That was beautiful."

Maybe she understood. She seemed to have forgiven him. He felt his pulse quicken. "Uh, thanks, I-"

"It was about you, right? About how far you've come? I know this hasn't been easy. I'm _proud_ of you."

"Yeah, thanks." He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice because _she hadn't understood_. "I-I'm sorry. For everything."

Her smile wavered, looked just a little broken, just a little sad. "I know, me too."

Then she took his hand, firmly, warmly, and pulled him away from the stage. Her hand in his was like a balm, and he was so relieved that she forgave him. And yet-

Maka forgave him, but she didn't understand at all.

She didn't know, still didn't know how much he loved her, what she meant to him. Everything. _Everything_. Maybe his song had done as he needed it to, but it felt utterly empty because Maka didn't understand it, still didn't know his heart.

She forgave him, but it didn't mean that she accepted him, accepted _them_.

It didn't mean they could move forward, only that they could go back.


End file.
